Some  Account  of  tfae  Travels  of  (VI  ysetf 
and  my  Son  in  tfae  Summer  of  1902 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

PRESENTED  BY 

PROF. CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 
MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


This  is  one  of  an  edition  of  two  hundred 

copies  printed  from  type  in  the 

month  of  July,  nineteen 

hundred  and  three 

No. 


SOME  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  TRAV- 
ELS OF  MYSELF  AND  MY  SON 
IN  THE  SUMMER  OF  NINE- 
TEEN HUNDRED  AND  TWO 


NEW  YORK:    PRIVATELY   PRINTED 


Copyright,  1903,  by 
JAMES  C.  PARRISH 


ID  9  2. 1 

66 


summer  < 
f 
HE   fourth  of  July,   1902, 

was  a  warm,  bright  day  in 
Paris,  and  Paris  was  very 
glad  of  it.  There  had  been 
little  summer  weather  in  June,  and  the  few 
bright  days  that  had  come  at  the  end  of 
that  usually  brilliant  month  had  filled  the 
suburban  trains  with  many  a  gay  party. 
From  my  window  at  the  Ritz,  overlooking 
the  garden  of  the  Ministere  de  la  Justice, 
taking  in  a  broad  expanse  of  sky,  where 
from  the  hazy  horizon  rose  the  iron  lace- 
work  of  the  Tour  Eiffel,  I  looked  with 
pleasure  at  the  indications  of  the  weather, 
3 


M3117S6 


having  determined  to  deny  myself  the 
enjoyment  of  being  present  at  the  celebra- 
tion by  the  American  colony  of  our  "  glo- 
rious anniversary  "  and  to  hie  me  to  Lon- 
don, stopping  on  the  way  for  a  sea  bath 
at  Boulogne-sur-Mer. 

The  8.45  morning  train  for  London 
carries  many  travellers  whose  lives  seem 
well  ordered,  early  risers,  well-to-do  peo- 
ple, outside  the  world  of  fashion,  to  whom 
the  early  morning  is  perhaps  more  en- 
joyable than  the  late  hours  of  the  night. 
Of  this  number  were  my  two  chance  com- 
panions in  our  comfortable  railway  car- 
riage, a  gentleman  and  his  wife.  They 
both  insisted  on  my  smoking,  the  husband 
joining  me  in  a  cigar.  This  led  to  conver- 
sation wherein  I  soon  found  by  their  ac- 
cent that  my  new  acquaintances  were  from 
the  North  Country,  which  naturally  led  to 
my  reviving  my  Yorkshire  days.  My  new 
friend  was  the  proprietor  of  woollen  mills, 
and  entertained  me  by  showing  me  sam- 

4 


pies  of  fine  Cashmere  wools  and  telling  me 
much  that  was  interesting  regarding  them. 
I  gave  his  wife  a  small  box  of  strawberries 
at  Amiens,  which  pleased  them  both,  and 
when  we  bade  each  other  good-bye  at  Bou- 
logne, it  was  not,  I  think,  without  a  feel- 
ing that  we  had  all  three  appeared  to  ad- 
vantage to  each  other. 

A  look,  something  between  a  bow  and  a 
nod  and  a  smile,  to  "  La  Belle  Caroline  " 
in  the  fish-market,  who  still  preserves 
her  commanding  presence  and  majestic 
beauty,  telegrams  to  Louise  .and  the 
Berkeley  (both  of  which  I  found  later  had 
arrived  in  a  mutilated  condition) ,  were  the 
principal  events  that  preceded  my  delight- 
ful bath  in  the  Channel,  the  refreshing 
waters  of  the  North  Sea  having  for  me 
a  special  virtue  as  a  bracer. 

A  bountiful  lunch  at  the  little  restau- 
rant on  the  Jette,  where  I  partook  of 
fresh  sole,  among  other  delicacies,  and 
where  I  watched  the  fishing-boats  passing 
5 


lazily  out  to  sea,  with  a  steamer  tug  or  two 
coming  to  and  fro,  reviving  many  Bou- 
lognaise  recollections  of  the  past,  some  on 
this  very  spot,  occupied  the  time  until, 
when  it  neared  three  in  the  afternoon,  I 
determined  on  having  a  nap  at  the  "  Im- 
perial," that  I  might  be  fresh  for  the  in- 
strumental concert  at  the  Casino. 

Boulogne  has  changed  little  these  past 
thirty-odd  years  that  I  have  known  it. 
The  spacious  courtyard  of  the  "  Hotel  des 
Bains,"  into  which  Thackeray's  impatient 
Englishman  might  have  called  down  from 
his  bedroom  window,  "De  dong,  garsong, 
vooly  voo  me  donny  lo  sho,  ou  vooly  voo 
pah?";  the  dining-room,  where,  with  the 
consequential  air  of  the  Briton,  he  orders 
"grilled  ham,  cold  chicken,  and  boiled 
eggs  "  for  his  "  first  breakfast,"  are  there 
just  as  they  have  been  for  fifty  years 
or  more;  the  "Imperial,"  with  its  name 
imbedded  in  its  slate  roof,  perhaps  on  the 
very  spot  where  Louis  Napoleon  let  loose 
6 


his  tame  eagle,  and  waited  for  his  uncle's 
admirers  to  crowd  around  him  (he  might 
as  well  have  waited  for  the  ghosts  of  La 
Grande  Armee),  stands  in  all  its  grey 
loneliness,  and  looks  as  desolate  as  ever. 

Calais,  these  last  few  years,  has  gone 
through  great  changes.  Hogarth's  gate 
has  been  swept  away  to  make  room  for  the 
new  docks,  and  so  with  the  old  station, 
with  its  cosy  corner,  where  in  the  early 
days  of  the  Denver  and  Rio  Grande,  when 
I  was  to  and  fro  many  times  a  year  be- 
tween London  and  Amsterdam,  we  had 
such  good  breakfasts,  on  the  arrival  of 
our  train  from  Brussels  an  hour  or  two 
ahead  of  the  Paris  express.  George  Hud- 
son, England's  dethroned  railway  king, 
was  our  guest  at  times,  his  broad,  good- 
humoured  Yorkshire  face  defying  the 
sting  of  exile  and  poverty,  as  he  enlivened 
our  little  party  with  entertaining  stories  of 
the  past,  we  little  thinking  that  Wall 
Street  was  hurrying  to  a  railroad  panic 
7 


and  the  same  financial  chaos  that  had  en- 
gulfed him,  driven  him  from  home  and 
made  him  an  exile.  Sterne,  once  outside 
the  Hotel  Dessein,  would  not  know  the 
place;  not  so  with  Boulogne,  which  seems 
to  have  been  finished,  for  all  time,  long 
years  ago.  May  it  so  remain! 

A  light  dinner  at  the  Christophle  pre- 
ceded my  departure  for  Albion.  On  the 
steamer  I  met  an  Oxford  professor  who 
had  been  taking  his  family  to  a  seaside  re- 
sort, lately  created  at  the  terminus  of  a 
trolley  line,  some  five  miles  along  the  coast 
toward  Cape  Gris  Nez.  He  was  pleased 
to  tell  me  of  the  degree  they  had  conferred 
on  Lord  Cromer.  I  imagine  he  had  had 
a  hand  in  the  ceremonies,  and  enjoyed  the 
light  reflected  from  the  great  man.  He 
was  desirous  to  know  my  views  regarding 
Cecil  Rhodes'  American  scholarships,  of 
which  I  thought  most  highly,  hinting,  how- 
ever, that  their  importance  should  not  be 
overestimated.  His  visit  to  the  Continent, 

8 


or  my  nationality,  seemed  to  stimulate  his 
desire  to  be  agreeable,  our  exchange  of 
views  making  the  smooth  crossing,  softly 
lighted  by  the  long  midsummer  twilight, 
only  too  soon  over. 

Among  Continental  travellers  the  Chan- 
nel has  few  friends.  I  am  one  of  them. 
I  must  have  crossed  it  some  hundreds  of 
times,  and  in  every  month  of  the  year.  I 
have  seen  it  smooth  and  glassy,  in  Janu- 
ary, and  tossed  by  frightful  tempests  in 
midsummer.  I  have  crossed  after  the 
"  Grand  Prix,"  when  there  was  only  stand- 
ing-room on  the  deck,  and  when  one  of  the 
gay  party  accompanying  the  Marquis  of 
Hastings,  whose  horse  had  won  the  great 
race,  ingeniously  inserted  a  folded  camp- 
stool  among  the  legs  of  the  passengers, 
eager  to  work  their  way  off  the  boat  and 
find  seats  in  the  London  train.  I  can  see 
the  man's  coarse  grin  now,  as  he  listened 
to  the  imprecations  of  his  fellow-passen- 
gers, struggling  with  this  unexpected  ob- 
9 


stack.  I  have  crossed  during  the  Franco- 
Prussian  war  when  the  boats  were  de- 
serted. In  those  days  almost  every  one 
took  the  Belgian  line  to  Ostend.  I  have 
crossed  during  the  Commune  when  the 
trains  to  Paris  had  ceased  to  run,  and  I 
was  the  only  passenger. 

Standing  in  the  forward  part  of  the 
boat  by  night,  watching  her  shoot  through 
the  dark  sea  underneath  us,  the  curling 
waves  phosphorescent,  and  the  spray  fall- 
ing like  sparks  from  the  blacksmith's  anvil, 
the  sensation  of  life  on  the  sea  is  to  me  at 
its  best. 

On  one  of  our  large  ocean-liners,  one 
is  too  far  from  the  water  to  realize  the 
speed  at  which  she  is  going.  Not  so  with 
the  Channel  boats,  where  it  is  almost  like 
shooting  the  rapids. 

To  our  left,  the  north  and  south  fore- 
land lights  throw  into  space  their  brilliant 
rays.  As  I  think  of  Clark  Russell's  vivid 
description  of  the  "  Grosvenor,"  and  her 

10 


mutinous  crew,  dropping  down  the  Chan- 
nel, not  far  from  where  we  are,  a  mysteri- 
ous feeling  comes  over  me  as  that  weird 
account  of  the  ill-fated  ship  fills  my 
thoughts.  A  flash-light  twinkles  from 
Calais,  growing  stronger  and  stronger  as 
the  foreland  lights  dwindle  away.  The 
reader  will  see  that  I  have  chosen  my  de- 
scription as  England  sinks  in  the  horizon, 
not  thoughts  aroused  in  the  pleasant 
Fourth -of -July  crossing  we  have  just 
made,  but  rather  the  accumulated  impres- 
sions of  years. 

A  conversation  with  a  substantial-look- 
ing Englishman,  approaching  his  fiftieth 
year,  shortened  the  journey  from  Folke- 
stone to  London.  His  opinion  was  that 
all  this  fuss  over  the  coronation  was  much 
out  of  place.  "We  are  a  republic,"  he  said, 
"and  why  should  we  make  such  a  time  over 
one  of  our  constitutional  acts,  no  more  im- 
portant than  others  that  pass  unheeded  by 
the  public? " 

11 


I  had  a  few  words  with  the  driver  of  the 
locomotive  as  we  waited  for  the  customs  at 
Charing  Cross,  a  man  of  good  manners, 
and,  I  imagine,  good  nerves,  from  the  way 
he  drove  us  over  the  last  fifty  miles,  reply- 
ing to  my  allusion  to  our  speed  with  the 
statement  that  if  they  would  give  him  ten 
minutes  more  he  would  have  brought  us 
along  comfortably,  "but,  you  see,  the  pub- 
lic compel  us  to  make  time." 

It  was  near  midnight  as  I  rolled  by  the 
tawdry  decorations  of  St.  James  Street, 
here  and  there  half  dismantled,  in  a  four- 
wheeler  that  was  not  a  bad  match  for  the 
surroundings. 

People  speak  of  London  being  so  solid, 
much  more  so  than  Paris.  For  my  part, 
I  cannot  see  it.  Certainly  the  dwellings 
of  Paris  are  more  imposing  than  many 
miles  of  the  brick  fronts  that  one  meets  in 
nearly  every  thoroughfare  of  London. 

A  good  room  at  the  Berkeley,  with  a 
blanket  heavy  enough  for  the  Arctic  re- 

12 


gions,  which,  as  the  one  hot  spell  of  the 
summer  was  on,  made  one  warm  to  look 
at,  a  comfortable  night,  the  usual  visit  to 
my  tailor  in  the  morning,  a  hasty  glance 
at  the  works  of  the  old  masters  in  the  sev- 
eral Bond  Street  shops,  to  the  Royal 
Academy,  where  there  is  a  picture  by 
Sargent — the  Ladies  Acheson — that  ex- 
ceeds in  beauty  any  modern,  if  not  ancient 
portrait  picture  that  I  am  now  able  to  call 
to  mind,  combining,  it  seems  to  me,  the 
grace  of  Hoppner,  the  strength  of  Velas- 
quez, and  the  subtle  charm  of  Gainsbor- 
ough. 

This  busy  morning  over,  I  hurried  to  3 
Buckingham  Gate,  to  lunch  with  Aleck 
and  Louise,  where  I  received  an  affection- 
ate welcome,  and  passed  two  hours  in  that 
blissful  life  of  a  delightful  present  united 
to  a  past  full  of  the  many,  many  memories 
of  my  happy  married  life. 

After  lunch  Aleck  and  I  went  to  Lon- 
don Bridge  station  to  see  Louise  despatch 

13 


one  party  of  her  "  Girls'  Club  "  to  the  sea- 
side for  a  two  weeks'  outing,  and  another 
party  which  she  had  in  tow  for  an  after- 
noon at  a  friend's  house,  where  they  were 
to  have  a  "garden  party." 

The  "Girls'  Club"  is  a  labour  of  love  of 
my  daughter.  Finding,  on  a  visit  with  her 
husband  to  his  mine  in  Oregon,  that  she 
had  power  over  the  turbulent  miners,  who, 
under  her  influence,  became  repentant  and 
obedient,  she  determined  to  see  what  she 
could  do  to  improve  the  lives  of  young 
girls  living  in  the  East  End  of  London; 
choosing  Whitechapel,  that  sink  of  crime 
and  iniquity,  pretty  much  abandoned  by 
the  charitable,  who  have  declared  that  no 
good  could  come  out  of  Hoxton. 

The  girls  pay  a  small  sum  weekly,  which 
is  supposed,  more  or  less,  to  run  the  Club. 
They  also  deposit,  at  frequent  intervals, 
such  sums  as  they  can  spare,  with  Louise, 
who  credits  them  with  it,  and  this  is  sup- 
posed to  pay  for  their  two  weeks'  summer 

14 


outing.  A  girl  who  was  obliged  to  draw 
out  her  deposit,  owing  to  the  necessities  of 
her  mother,  who  was  taken  ill,  lost  her  out- 
ing. I  believe  some  means  were  found 
partially  to  compensate  her  for  it.  This 
will  give  some  idea  of  the  strictness  of 
the  discipline,  and  the  feeling  of  self-help, 
which  is  thoroughly  impressed  on  every 
girl. 

Louise,  some  day,  I  hope,  will  tell  her 
own  story:  how  she  has  been  appealed  to 
by  the  London  County  Council,  who  give 
her  all  the  assistance  she  will  accept,  and 
how  she  was  asked  to  address  a  distin- 
guished company  at  the  Mansion  House, 
and  many  events,  I  feel  sure,  of  which  I 
am  ignorant.  All  I  know  is,  that  un- 
aided by  her  own  class,  affecting  by 
dress  to  be  as  one  of  her  girls,  and 
avoiding  all  allusion  to  religion,  she  has 
gathered  around  her  the  children  of  pa- 
rents steeped  in  vice,  desperate  at  times 
through  poverty  and  drink,  patiently  in- 

15 


structing  her  little  wards  by  association, 
as  well  as  by  word;  has  beautified  them 
in  thought  and  deed,  and  sends  them 
home,  night  after  night,  as  little  min- 
isters of  good  into  the  wretched  lives  of 
their  parents.  Clergymen,  the  Salvation 
Army,  emblems  of  the  Cross,  are  held  in 
derision  or  hatred  in  this  part  of  London. 
Louise's  success  is  the  triumph  of  good- 
ness without  church  or  creed.  Surrounded 
by  her  two  parties  of  girls,  attired  so 
plainly  that  I  did  not,  at  first,  recognize 
her,  she  was  ready  to  receive  us,  and  at 
once  presented  us,  right  and  left.  My 
name  was  not  altogether  unknown,  as  I 
believe  I  am  used  as  an  explanation  of 
what  seems,  at  times,  too  free  a  use  of 
money  for  a  working  girl,  even  if  she  be  at 
the  head  of  a  club. 

Just  as  I  was  becoming  acquainted  with 
the  girls,  guessing  their  ages,  telling  the 
little  ones  they  would  soon  grow  tall,  and 
overestimating  the  ages  of  the  tall  ones, 
Louise  told  Aleck  and  me  that  we  had  bet- 
16 


ter  go.  We  did  go,  and  not  knowing  what 
to  do,  we  rode  in  the  Tube — which  I 
very  much  wanted  to  see — westward,  and 
finally,  with  the  use  of  tramways,  arrived 
at  Kew  Gardens,  where  we  much  admired 
the  trees  and  enjoyed  the  beautiful  sum- 
mer afternoon,  a  treat  that  so  rarely  comes 
to  London,  all  of  which  revived  in  me  my 
efforts  at  enjoyment  in  this  way  thirty 
years  or  more  ago. 

We  dined  at  the  Berkeley,  and  then  to 
a  stupid  play,  where  Charles  Hawtrey's 
brother  was  trying  to  imitate  Charles'  tal- 
ents without  much  success.  We  were 
driven  out  at  the  end  of  the  second  act  by 
ennui,  and  repaired  to  the  Berkeley,  and 
after  a  half  hour  or  more  over  our  cigars 
and  tall  tumblers  filled  with  harmless 
drinks,  bade  each  other  good  night. 


Sunday,  July  6th. 

Full  of  delightful  anticipations,  I  took 
the  early  morning  express  from  Padding- 
17 


ton  for  Exeter,  en  route  for  Plymouth  to 
meet  my  son.  My  companion  in  the  rail- 
way carriage  was  an  English  army  offi- 
cer, lately  returned  from  South  Africa. 
After  an  hour's  silent  criticism  of  each 
other,  over  the  newspapers,  we  broke  the 
silence,  and  soon  drifted  into  an  animated 
conversation,  stretching  from  South  Af- 
rica to  Salt  Lake,  and  winding  up  with 
an  elaborate  programme  as  to  how  I  was 
to  see  the  best  of  Devonshire  in  forty- 
eight  hours,  which  included  a  card  of  in- 
troduction to  the  ship-chandler  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Wye,  who  was  to  provide  a 
boat  in  which  to  ascend  the  river,  the  tides 
having  been  ascertained  from  a  pocket 
almanac  and  the  whole  programme  ar- 
ranged to  a  nicety.  Sad  to  say,  it  never 
came  off,  the  exceptional  heat  deciding 
me,  when  the  time  came,  to  give  it  up. 

Two  hours  at  Exeter,  mostly  passed  at 
the  cathedral,  where  during  service  I  read, 
on  the  tablets  in  the  wall,  the  names  of 

18 


many  Exeter  men  who  had  fallen  in  the 
Crimea  and  elsewhere;  a  new  bronze 
plaque,  of  considerable  size,  adding  a  sad 
list  of  South  African  fatalities. 

Those  familiar  with  the  impressions 
produced  by  an  English  cathedral  town 
on  a  warm  Sunday  afternoon — the  neatly 
dressed  women  demurely  walking  the 
streets  (household  servants  for  the  greater 
part),  the  almost  entire  absence  of  vehi- 
cles, the  tightly  closed  shops,  the  solem- 
nity of  the  hotel,  where  the  buzzing  of  the 
fly  alone  disturbs  the  silence;  the  general 
air  of  conservative  respectability  which 
meets  you  at  every  turn — will  agree  with 
me,  I  think,  that  two  hours  are  sufficient 
to  gratify  one's  curiosity.  So,  nothing 
loath  to  leave,  I  took  the  train  from  Exe- 
ter to  Plymouth,  a  two  hours'  run,  the  lat- 
ter part  much  by  the  seaside,  where  the 
cool  sea  breeze,  with  its  pungent  odour  of 
seaweed,  came  gratefully  over  the  salt 
marshes  exposed  by  the  fallen  tide. 
19 


The  hotel  at  Plymouth  is  close  to  the 
railway  station,  and  is  the  average  Eng- 
lish railway  hotel,  partaking  in  its  char- 
acter of  much  that  is  unattractive  in  both 
English  and  American  life :  a  busy  porter, 
a  neat-looking  woman  presiding  at  the 
desk,  somewhat  severe  in  appearance  and 
decidedly  formal  in  manner,  and  a  sprink- 
ling of  American  travellers,  talking 
loudly  of  their  affairs  at  dinner  and  in  the 
halls,  in  apparent  oblivion  of  the  existence 
of  others. 

A  walk  to  the  concert  in  the  Pavilion 
at  the  end  of  the  pier;  an  offer  to  find  a 
lost  child  for  a  young  woman,  resulting  in 
wandering  to  and  fro  in  vain,  the  child 
having  undoubtedly  turned  up  somewhere 
on  the  extensive  esplanade,  where  most  of 
Plymouth  congregates  on  a  fine  summer 
Sunday  evening,  and  a  good  night's  rest 
in  a  dingy  room,  completed  this  interest- 
ing day. 


20 


Monday,  July  7th. 

Rising  early,  as  is  my  custom,  I  sought 
where  I  might  enjoy  a  bath  in  the  sea, 
which,  with  the  assistance  of  my  cab-driver, 
I  found  with  little  difficulty.  Breakfast, 
and  then  to  the  tender  which  was  to  take 
me  to  meet  my  son  on  the  "  Kronprinz." 
After  a  long  separation,  and  the  unknown 
week  of  the  Atlantic  crossing,  there  is  a 
feeling  of  not  altogether  pleasurable  ex- 
citement as  one  awaits  the  moment  of 
recognition.  Something  might  have  hap- 
pened. 

We  sighted  the  "  Kronprinz  "  well  out 
at  sea.  The  white  foam  broke  around  her 
cutwater,  and  when  we  finally  drew  up  to 
her,  with  the  hundreds  of  heads  appear- 
ing over  the  rail,  I  had  a  nervous  feeling 
until  I  saw  a  Groton  ribbon,  and  the  next 
moment  the  smile  of  Jimmy,  who  looked 
the  picture  of  health  and  happiness.  I 
filed  on  to  the  steamer,  kissed  my  son,  was 

21 


shown  his  state-room,  and  duly  presented 
to  one  or  two  of  his  intimates.  After  the 
stream  of  baggage,  of  all  sorts  and  kinds, 
was  transferred  we  steamed  away,  quickly 
losing  sight  of  the  leviathan  behind  a  point 
of  land,  and  were  soon  at  the  dock  at  Ply- 
mouth, where  a  long  boat  train  awaited  us. 

The  thousand  cigars  brought  me  were 
soon  passed  at  the  custom-house,  with  a 
moderate  sum  paid  in  duties. 

The  ride  to  London  was  rather  warm 
work.  Lunch  in  the  dining-car,  the  sight 
of  green  fields,  with  here  and  there  herds 
of  little  red  Devon  cattle,  now  and  then 
an  object  of  interest,  the  towers  of  Exeter 
Cathedral,  the  Thames,  enlivened  at  times 
by  a  boating  party,  and  the  general  ex- 
hilaration from  the  speed  with  which  we 
were  going,  passed  the  time  agreeably, 
bringing  us  to  London  about  five  o'clock. 

Colonel  Borup  was  on  the  platform 
awaiting  his  son  George,  who  was  of  our 
party. 

22 


Our  stay  in  London  was  to  be  but  three 
or  four  days;  so,  as  the  evening  was  fine 
and  warm,  I  planned  dinner  at  the  Star 
and  Garter.  We  caught  the  train  at  Wa- 
terloo, with  a  minute  to  spare.  At  the 
hotel  we  found  a  large  company — the 
Basket-makers,  some  two  hundred  strong 
— dining.  The  waiter  confidentially  in- 
formed us  that  the  dinner  was  sixteen 
shillings  a  head  without  wine,  and  that 
they  had  had  the  Basket-makers  for  a 
number  of  years. 

The  view  from  the  Star  and  Garter,  the 
placid  Thames,  the  expanse  of  green  in  all 
directions,  was  as  I  had  seen  it  twenty  or 
more  years  ago,  and  the  dinner  quite  the 
same,  good  to  those  just  off  ship,  poor  to 
one  fresh  from  the  Ritz. 

After  dinner,  a  stroll  on  the  terrace, 
then  a  commodious  cab  with  a  fairly  good 
horse,  the  driver  consenting  to  take  us  as 
far  as  Hammersmith.  He  said  it  was  all 
his  horse  ought  to  do.  From  there  we 

23 


took  the  Underground.  A  railroad  por- 
ter, to  my  question  if  the  Tube  had  hurt 
them  much,  replied  in  an  injured  tone,  "It 
does  not  carry  all  the  passengers." 

Our  companions  in  the  compartment 
were  an  Anglo-American  party  of  the 
middle  class  of  life,  whose  conversation 
entertained  us  much.  The  American  was 
bragging  of  his  country,  and  the  English 
members  of  the  party,  seemingly  some- 
what depressed  by  our  assertive  fellow- 
countryman,  were  asking  questions  at  rare 
intervals  in  a  subdued  tone. 

George  Borup's  father  desired  that  his 
son's  visit  to  Europe  should  be  an  educa- 
tion as  well  as  a  pleasure,  and  to  this  end 
he  had  engaged  a  tutor  to  show  George 
London,  so  that  we  lost  him  the  following 
day. 

%  July  8th. 

After  a  good  breakfast  in  that  cheer- 
ful breakfast-room  at  the  Berkeley,  we 

24 


called  at  Hill  Brothers  and  ordered  cer- 
tain suits  of  clothes.  I  did  not  take  my 
son  there  in  a  high  silk  hat,  and  did  not 
stand  over  him  as  he  was  being  measured, 
and  look  as  if  I  were  sorry  for  his  exist- 
ence, as  I  have  seen  English  fathers  do. 
On  the  contrary,  we  soon  separated  in  the 
shop,  Jimmy  choosing  his  own  stuffs, 
after  asking  my  opinion,  and  conducting 
his  purchases  independently,  meeting  me 
later  on. 

We  lunched  with  Louise  and  Aleck 
and  had  one  of  those  delightful  family 
reunions,  where  affection  prompted  our 
conversation,  and  smiles  of  delight  at 
being  together  passed  from  face  to  face. 

After  lunch,  Aleck,  Jimmy  and  I  went 
to  Lord's  and  saw  the  gentlemen  players 
versus  the  professionals.  Jimmy  soon 
"  caught  on  "  to  the  game,  and  was  in  no 
hurry  to  leave. 

We  dined  together  at  the  Berkeley,  and 
went  to  the  Empire.  The  night  was 

25 


warm  and  I  found  a  cool  breeze  coming 
through  the  open  door  of  Windmill 
Street,  almost  as  pleasing  as  the  ballet. 

On  the  following  morning,  July  ninth, 
we  were  off  to  Henley,  having  added 
George  Borup  to  our  party.  The  warm, 
bright  spell  of  weather  that  we  had  en- 
joyed since  my  arrival  in  England  was 
drawing  to  a  close,  and  prudence  sug- 
gested an  umbrella.  I  had  left  my  Pan- 
ama hat  in  Paris,  and  seeing  that  rain 
might  come,  I  thought  a  low-crowned 
black  hat  would  not  be  amiss. 

Arriving  at  Paddington,  the  gay 
throng  in  summer  attire  that  visitors  to 
Henley  know  so  well,  crowded  the  plat- 
forms. All  the  men  wore  Panama  hats, 
the  brims  curved  to  suit  the  taste  of  the 
wearer. 

Almost  immediately  opposite  the  sta- 
tion at  Henley  was  a  branch  shop,  opened 
for  the  races,  with  all  kinds  of  yachting 
goods,  including  Panama  hats.  I  hesi- 
26 


tated,  but  passed  on  with  the  throng. 
Before  entering  the  enclosure  to  which 
our  guinea  tickets  entitled  us,  I  saw 
a  very  decayed-looking  individual  wear- 
ing a  hat  like  mine,  the  first  billycock  I 
had  seen.  This  was  too  much  for  me,  so 
I  said,  "  Jimmy,  I  am  going  back  to  buy 
a  Panama  hat."  "  All  right,"  he  said;  "  I 
will  go  with  you."  The  selection  was 
made  subject  to  his  taste,  which  I  discov- 
ered was  on  his  part  with  an  eye  to  future 
ownership. 

Before  the  day  was  out,  a  thunder- 
shower,  turning  into  a  cold  storm,  made 
Panama  hats  most  unsuitable  headgear. 
The  effect  of  the  storm  on  the  river  was  to 
turn  the  bright,  gay  colors  into  sombre 
drab  and  black,  as  each  lady  donned  her 
waterproof,  all  effected  in  a  few  moments. 
A  feature  of  the  day  was  the  presence  of 
the  Indian  princes,  slender  in  figure,  re- 
fined in  manner,  richly  attired,  carrying 
themselves  with  an  ease  and  grace  that  im- 
27 


plied  a  more  delicately  spun  social  fibre 
than  that  of  their  substantial-looking 
English  ciceroni. 

Dr.  and  Mrs.  Bell  kindly  offered  us 
places  at  their  lunch-table,  where  we  par- 
took, with  their  pleasant  party,  of  a  typical 
open-air  English  meal,  largely  composed 
of  salads,  pickles,  liquid  mayonnaise  in 
large-mouthed  bottles,  jams  and  other 
highly  indigestible  condiments,  as  well  as 
an  unlimited  amount  of  champagne. 

On  our  return  from  Henley,  we  dined 
with  Aleck  and  Louise,  and  came  home  in 
a  cold  rain. 

The  following  morning,  July  tenth, 
Jimmy  informed  me  in  a  most  virtuous 
manner  that  he  wanted  to  go  with  George 
Borup  and  his  tutor  and  see  something  of 
London.  I  smiled  and  said,  "  Certainly." 
On  his  return  in  the  evening,  "Well,"  said 
I,  "  Jimmy,  have  you  had  an  interesting 
time? "  Then  came  the  description.  A 
tutor  more  anxious  to  conscientiously  ful- 

28 


fil  the  duty  of  instructing,  rather  than  en- 
tertaining, the  youthful  mind,  lacking,  my 
son  seemed  to  think,  in  a  sense  of  hu- 
mour,— as  who  might  not,  with  two 
strange  boys  to  instruct  who  were  to  re- 
port to  their  fathers  what  they  had  seen, — 
had  taken  them  from  one  museum  to  an- 
other until  my  son,  at  least,  was  thor- 
oughly tired  out.  George  Borup,  to  his 
credit,  I  hear,  stands  by  the  tutor,  regard- 
ing him  doubtless  as  his  father's  junior  in 
command  and  entitled  to  confidence  and 
respect. 

I  think  I  observed  in  my  son  an  in- 
creased regard,  if  that  were  possible,  for 
my  judgement  as  to  what  we  should  do 
next  as  the  programme  unfolded  from  day 
to  day.  He  consoled  himself  in  the  even- 
ing by  going  to  the  theatre  with  Elsie 
Nicholas. 

My  evening  was  passed  very  differ- 
ently. Aleck  and  I,  after  dinner,  drove 
to  Whitechapel.  Leaving  the  brougham 


a  safe  distance  from  Huntington  Street, 
we  proceeded  to  the  "Girls'  Club."  En- 
tering a  narrow  doorway,  set  back  from 
the  street,  we  found  ourselves  in  a  room, 
some  sixty  feet  or  more  deep,  some  twenty 
feet  in  width,  with  benches  against  the 
wall,  and  a  piano  in  one  corner,  the  whole 
place  filled  with  young  girls  from  the 
ages  of  five  to  fifteen  or  more.  Louise, 
in  a  gingham  check  suit,  or  something  of 
the  sort,  was  busy,  with  the  assistance  of 
some  of  the  older  girls,  in  bringing  the  oc- 
casion to  order.  What  sensations  of  curi- 
osity mingled  with  awe  Aleck  and  I  in  our 
evening  dress  brought  to  the  minds  of 
most  of  the  little  ones,  I  did  my  part  to 
dispel  as  quickly  as  possible  by  hunting 
up  my  friends  of  the  railway  station,  and 
greeting  them  with  as  much  familiarity  as 
their  at  times  unresponsive  manner  would 
permit.  On  such  occasions  too  great  a  suc- 
cess is  as  bad  as  comparative  failure,  and 
Louise,  probably  having  an  intuitive  f eel- 

30 


ing  of  the  sort,  soon  called  them  to  order, 
and  seating  herself  at  the  piano,  the  older 
girls  gave  us  an  exhibition  in  gymnastics, 
keeping  time  to  her  spirited  music.  I  was 
much  impressed  with  the  vigour  and  grace 
of  the  girls'  movements,  and  saw  that  they 
had  been  well  trained.  Their  costumes 
were  not  unlike  an  American  girl's  bath- 
ing-dress, the  material,  I  think,  black 
alpaca,  their  waists  encircled  with  light 
blue  sashes.  After  the  gymnastics  a  hymn 
was  sung,  leaving  that  touching  feeling 
that  young  voices  in  evening-song  carry  to 
our  better  nature.  The  girls  vote  at  times 
as  to  what  hymn  shall  be  chosen,  and  by 
their  lively  interest  in  the  choice  show  their 
appreciation  of  the  words. 

Louise  soon  informed  us  that  they  had 
much  to  do  in  arranging  for  summer  out- 
ings for  various  members  of  the  club,  and 
that  she  thought  our  visit  was  over.  A 
little  red-haired  roly-poly,  about  five 
years  of  age,  asked  to  be  kissed  by  Louise, 

31 


and  was  promptly  told  that  she  could 
only  be  kissed  once  a  week,  and  then 
only  if  she  were  good.  It  seems  on  one 
of  their  excursions  she  had  been  found 
hiding  under  her  clothes  an  empty  soda- 
water  bottle  which  she  had  picked  up, 
and,  much  to  the  amusement  of  all,  it 
was  taken  from  her  with  the  explana- 
tion that  she  must  not  take  things  that 
did  not  belong  to  her.  A  bright,  black- 
eyed  young  woman,  with  a  good  figure, 
found  my  hat  and  presented  it  with  the 
air  of  speedily  departing  the  guest. 
Aleck  and  I  were  soon  out  in  the  dismal 
streets  of  Whitechapel,  seeking  later  in 
the  Alhambra  a  more  enlivening  prospect. 
I  recall  vividly  almost  every  detail  of 
my  visit  to  the  "  Girls'  Club."  I  cannot 
find  in  my  memory  a  single  scene  of  the 
Alhambra  entertainment. 


July  llth. 

A  fine  day,  cold  and  bright.  We  are 
off  for  the  Tower,  picking  up  Archie 
Brown  at  the  Palace  Hotel,  where  he 
had  come  to  see  Elsie  Nicholas.  Archie's 
time  being  limited,  I  arranged  that  he 
should  pay  his  call  on  Elsie  in  a  hansom 
cab  between  the  hotel  and  the  entrance  of 
the  Tower.  Time  did  not  permit  him  to 
go  in  with  us.  The  superintendent,  if 
that  is  his  title,  paid  us  special  attention; 
later  handing  us  over  to  a  very  substan- 
tial beef -eater,  who  showed  us  all  we  had 
time  and  patience  to  see,  from  the  foun- 
dation stones  of  the  time  of  Julius  Caesar 
to  the  precious  gems  of  King  Edward's 
crown  neatly  burnished  up  for  the  coming 
coronation.  Americans  are  deservedly 
popular  with  officials.  We  place  a  low 
estimate  on  a  shilling,  a  sixpence  we  de- 
spise, a  fourpenny  bit  we  know  not,  and 

33 


we  draw  little  difference  between  the 
Prince  Consort's  florin  and  a  half-crown. 

We  drove  on  our  way  back  through 
Whitechapel,  calling  at  the  Girls'  Club. 
It  was  closed,  and  the  modest  exterior  was 
all  I  could  show  Elsie  and  Jimmy. 

Lunch  at  the  Berkeley,  Madame  Tus- 
saud's  and  the  Eton  and  Harrow  match 
passed  the  afternoon,  and  gave  us  no  time 
to  spare  before  our  early  dinner  with 
Louise  and  Aleck  at  3  Buckingham  Gate, 
where  we  met  Mr.  Sherwood,  a  friend  of 
Herbert's.  After  dinner  to  a  comic  opera, 
and  so  home  to  bed. 

July  12th. 

The  journey  from  London  to  the  Con- 
tinent has  always  been  much  more  to 
my  liking  than  the  journey  from  the 
Continent  to  London.  France,  Belgium, 
Holland,  and  Italy  are  countries  that  en- 
tertain me  without  effort,  while  in  Eng- 
land I  sometimes  think  I  work  hard  for 

34 


my  pleasures,  hence  my  satisfaction  in  set- 
ting the  steps  of  my  son  thitherwards. 
Leaving  Charing  Cross  on  the  ten-o'clock 
train,  we  found  in  the  chairman  of  the 
Dover  Dock  Board,  the  only  other  occu- 
pant of  our  carriage,  a  pleasant  compan- 
ion. He  gave  us  an  interesting  account 
of  the  new  harbour  work,  which  is  now 
going  on. 

The  Channel  came  out  smooth  as  we 
got  our  first  glimpse  of  it  over  the  chalk 
cliffs,  and  we  were  soon  pacing  the  boat's 
deck,  where  whom  should  I  meet,  to 
my  great  delight,  but  my  friends  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  John  W.  Simpson  and  their 
daughter. 

My  package  of  eight  hundred  Star- 
light cigars  cost  me  200  francs  at  the 
custom-house,  which  surprised  me,  as  the 
same  number  passed  at  Cherbourg  for  less 
than  100  francs.  I  decided  not  to  discuss 
the  matter,  fearing  that  I  might  lose  both 
money  and  lunch,  which,  as  travellers 
35 


know,  is  very  well  done  at  the  Calais  sta- 
tion restaurant. 

The  ride  to  Paris  has  always  given  me 
pleasurable  sensations.  The  transition 
from  a  sober  English-speaking  people, 
albeit  they  have  many  virtues,  to  the  lively 
and  picturesque  qualities  of  the  Gaul, 
where  costume,  character  and  manner  dif- 
fer so  widely  from  their  English  neigh- 
bours, all  three  apparently  designed  to 
amuse  and  entertain,  excites  the  mind ;  and 
when  we  add  to  it  the  pleasure  of  speaking 
their  beautiful  language,  life  puts  on  a 
new  and  delightful  phase.  One  buys  the 
"Figaro"  to  see  what  is  to  be  played  at  the 
Fran9ais,  what  operas  are  to  be  given, 
what  is  doing  at  the  Gymnase,  and  is  the 
same  good  piece  going  at  the  Varietes. 
Some  of  your  fellow-travellers,  seeing  you 
at  home  on  both  sides  of  the  Channel,  give 
you  a  look  of  interest  and  consideration, 
and  you  imagine  they  are  asking  them- 
selves if  you  are  not  a  notability. 
36 


As  the  train  speeds  its  way  to  Paris,  long 
after  you  think  you  have  left  the  Channel, 
glimpses  of  the  sea,  a  lighthouse  and 
dunes  surprise  you  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Abbeville,  peat-bogs  and  bleach- 
ing-greens,  surrounded  by  slender  pop- 
lars and  twinkling  birches,  appear  as  you 
near  Amiens.  As  you  thunder  through 
the  station  at  Creil,  glide  over  the  high 
aqueduct  beyond,  through  the  quarries, 
and  past  the  lovely  forest  of  Chantilly, 
you  soon  begin  to  feel  the  stimulus  of  the 
approach  to  the  great  pleasure  city  of  the 
world,  and  as  the  train  clanks  over  the 
turntables  and  enters  the  station  you  are 
already  filled  with  anticipatory  pleasures. 

With  little  delay,  Jimmy  and  I,  with  our 
belongings,  were  rumbling  down  the  Rue 
Lafayette  in  a  small  omnibus,  soon  find- 
ing ourselves  in  a  most  comfortable,  com- 
modious room,  au  dnquieme,  at  the  Ritz, 
that  perfection  of  modern  hotels  and  mod- 
ern hotel-keeping. 

37 


We  had  time  before  dinner  to  walk 
through  the  Garden  of  the  Tuileries  out 
into  that  beautiful  expanse,  the  Place  de 
la  Concorde.  What  city  in  the  world 
offers  such  a  scene!  The  massive  Arc  in 
the  distant  perspective,  the  graceful  Mad- 
eleine glowing  in  the  afternoon  light,  the 
harmonious  Palais  Bourbon,  and  over- 
looking it  all,  the  Obelisk  of  Luxor,  a 
monument  once  the  glory  of  Thebes,  now 
the  admiration  of  Paris.  To  think  that 
on  this  spot  stood  the  guillotine  in  the 
Reign  of  Terror! 

My  son  absorbs  the  new  scenes  through 
which  he  is  passing  quietly  and  with  an 
intelligent  appreciation  of  their  interest. 
I  was  twenty-five  years  of  age  when  I 
arrived  for  the  first  time  in  Europe.  Paris 
amazed  me,  and  I  may  say  that  I  have 
never  gotten  over  the  effects  of  its  fasci- 
nation. It  may  be  that  New  York  and 
Philadelphia  in  those  days  were  such -in- 
different cities  that  the  contrast  with 

38 


Paris  is  not  now  what  it  was  then.  It 
may  be  that  I  was  unusually  impression- 
able. I  look  back  with  delight  at  my  en- 
joyment of  European  life,  as  I  roamed 
at  will  from  city  to  city,  or  from  seaside 
to  mountain,  free  from  care  and  restraint. 
Uncle  Willie  came  to  dine  with  us  at 
the  Kitz,  and  was  surprised  at  the  growth 
of  his  nephew.  After  dinner  he  took  us 
in  his  "  Mercedes  "  for  a  spin  to  the  Bois, 
followed  later  by  a  call  on  Emilie  and  her 
husband,  where  Jimmy  again  surprised 
his  family  by  his  stature.  There  I  met, 
for  the  first  time,  Mr.  Wright  Post,  Emi- 
lie's  father-in-law,  and  was  much  pleased 
with  his  amiable  reception  and  kindly, 
agreeable  conversation. 

Sunday,  July  13th. 

We  left  the  Ritz  at  an  early  hour  to  meet 

Sam  and  his  party,  Helen  and  Molly  Lee, 

who  were   living   in  the   Avenue   de   la 

Grande  Armee.    Sam  has  a  weakness  for 

39 


stopping  at  places  where  he  will  come  into 
contact,  in  an  informal  way,  with  nice 
people,  I  think  I  might  say,  of  the  gen- 
tler sex.  He  had  certainly  accomplished 
it  in  the  very  agreeable  quarters  in  which 
we  found  him. 

It  was  near  church  time,  and  an  air  of 
what  English  people  would  call  a  "  Chris- 
tian Sabbath "  pervaded  the  reception 
room  we  were  shown  into,  the  ladies  ap- 
pearing in  their  best  walking-suits,  put- 
ting on  their  gloves  as  they  laid  their 
prayer-books  down.  Who  has  said,  "  to 
be  well-dressed  gives  us  a  satisfaction  that 
religion  has  no  power  to  confer  "?  Sam's 
arrival  in  a  summer  suit  did  not  add  par- 
ticularly to  the  Sabbatarian  air,  as  he  re- 
ceived us  with  his  bright  and  genial  smile. 
Molly  and  Helen  soon  followed.  The  de- 
lightful reunion  with  members  of  the  same 
family  meeting  in  a  foreign  city  made  us 
a  very  happy  party. 

We  three  men  were  soon  off  for  the  lie 

40 


de  Puteaux,  where,  after  some  good  games 
of  tennis,  we  were  joined  by  Helen  and 
Molly  at  breakfast.  Will  Thorn  arrived 
later  in  his  auto,  taking  us  in  the  after- 
noon to  see  a  game  of  pelote,  a  wonderful 
exhibition  of  skill  at  ball-playing  by 
young  men  from  the  south  of  France  and 
Spain.  The  accuracy  with  which  they 
projected  the  ball  from  a  long,  narrow 
basket,  which  is  fastened  to  the  right  arm, 
resembling  somewhat  the  wicker  curves 
placed  over  carriage  wheels  to  keep  off  the 
mud  from  ladies'  dresses,  was  marvellous. 
A  hundred  yards  or  more  away,  they 
would  throw  the  ball  high  up  on  the  wall 
facing  them,  again  and  again  at  nearly 
the  same  spot.  Nearly  a  thousand  people 
were  watching  them,  and  the  Spanish 
custom  of  throwing  cigars  into  the  bull- 
ring, as  a  grateful  appreciation  of  a  bril- 
liant stroke,  prevailed. 

In  the  evening  we  had  a  family  party 
at  Paillard's,  the  principal  feature  of  the 

41 


dinner  being  that  the  peaches  were  six 
francs  apiece.  Fortunately,  most  of  the 
party  declined  them.  Jimmy  declared  he 
had  never  tasted  a  peach  equal  to  the  one 
he  then  and  there  devoured.  An  hour  at 
a  cafe  chantant,  and  the  evening  was  over. 

July  14th. 

France's  national  holiday.  A  warm 
summer  day.  Jimmy  and  I  separated, 
each  to  his  favourite  pastime,  his  tennis, 
mine  golf ;  he  with  his  Uncle  Sam,  intend- 
ing to  take  in  the  review  at  Longchamps, 
an  entertainment  that  I  was  willing  to 
omit,  having  served  an  apprenticeship  to 
most  of  the  shows  that  Longchamps 
offers  to  the  Paris  public. 

In  the  evening  we  dined  our  relatives 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Post  and  Will  Thorn  at 
the  Ritz.  Unfortunately,  being  a  warm 
night,  the  Hungarian  band  moved  out 
into  the  garden,  and  Mr.  Post  found  him- 

42 


self  seated  almost  under  one  of  the  violins, 
which  he  remarked  was  just  his  luck. 
However,  the  dinner  passed  off  with 
spirit,  and  we  separated  in  excellent  hu- 
mour and  good  feeling,  Jimmy  and  I 
going  for  a  stroll  to  see  the  Parisians  en- 
tertaining themselves  in  the  streets,  all 
traffic  being  stopped,  and  the  town 
handed  over  to  those  on  foot.  Numerous 
small  orchestras  or  bands  of  music  are 
stationed  at  corners,  and  a  not  unat- 
tractive gathering  of  men  and  women 
dance  on  the  asphalt  until  morning. 

Subscriptions  are  taken  up  some  time 
before  from  the  shopkeepers,  whereby  this 
annual  frolic  is  free  to  all  comers,  and  one 
must  confess  that  Parisians  deserve  great 
credit  for  the  attractive  way  in  which  they 
enjoy  themselves.  It  is,  I  think,  one  of 
the  marks  of  their  high  civilization.  One 
has  but  to  compare  a  pleasure  party 
among  what  are  called  the  lower  classes 
in  England  to  a  similar  entertainment  in 

43 


France  to  realise  how  different  the  sources 
of  enjoyment  of  the  two  nations  are. 

July  15th. 

A  dull  day.  Some  rain,  still  we  got  in 
several  sets  of  tennis  at  Puteaux,  hurrying 
away  about  five  in  the  afternoon,  leaving 
Sam  still  at  the  nets,  to  catch  the  Orient 
Express. 

The  obliging  gouvernante  of  the  Bitz, 
as  well  as  the  general  staff  of  porters, 
waiters,  and  bell-boys,  did  their  best  to 
meet  our  needs  and  expedite  our  de- 
parture. 

I  think  there  is  something  decidedly 
"  chic  "  in  a  gouvernante.  The  one  in 
question  is  an  Alsacienne,  good-natured, 
with  a  pleasant  smile  and  bright,  black 
eyes.  She  has  been  maid  to  one  or  two 
American  families,  has  travelled  in  Amer- 
ica, and  knows  well  how  to  supply  the 
wants  of  the  varied  nationalities  that  fre- 
quent the  Ritz. 


The  dining  hour  on  the  Orient  Express 
is  immediately  on  the  departure  of  the 
train,  at  7  P.M.  We  were  seated  at  a  table 
in  the  dining-car,  with  a  boy  of  twelve  on 
my  left,  and  his  tutor  on  Jim's  right,  as 
we  rolled  out  into  the  open,  through  the 
walls  of  Paris,  past  rows  of  forlorn-look- 
ing white  buildings,  with  here  and  there  a 
little  patch  of  green,  over  canals,  under 
bridges,  out  into  the  beautiful  landscape 
of  cultivated  France,  where  fields  of  ri- 
pening grain,  tinged  here  and  there  with 
pale  yellow,  were  swept  in  graceful  waves 
by  the  evening  breeze,  while  scarlet  pop- 
pies and  blue  corn-flowers  peeped  from 
the  unfenced  border,  all  softly  illumi- 
nated by  the  declining  sun. 

Calling  my  son's  attention  to  a  colom- 
bier,  as  one  of  the  causes  of  the  French 
Revolution,  the  tutor  remarked  in  a 
kindly,  firm,  tutorial  manner,  "  Droit  de 
seigneurie."  This  broke  the  ice,  and  we 
were  soon  chatting  pleasantly  together, 

45 


when  the  revolving  fan  fell  from  the  ceil- 
ing, one  of  the  blades  striking  me,  doing 
no  harm  other  than  making  me  for  the  mo- 
ment a  conspicuous  person. 

A  very  nice-looking  French  gentleman, 
with  a  trim,  angular,  distingue-looking 
wife,  who  might  have  been  a  good  horse- 
woman, made  himself  pleasant.  They  were 
on  their  way  to  the  Kneipp  cure,  over  which 
he  was  most  enthusiastic,  telling  me  he  had 
been  carried  there,  suffering,  he  feared, 
past  recovery,  from  rheumatism,  and  was 
now  as  well  as  ever.  The  theory  of  the 
treatment  seems  to  be  stimulation  of  the 
circulation  by  douches  on  particular  parts 
of  the  body,  the  free  use  of  pure  drinking- 
water  and  careful  diet.  His  party,  him- 
self, wife,  and  little  girl,  left  us  at  Ulm, 
and  the  cordial  manner  in  which  we  parted 
left  that  pleasing  impression  on  my  mind 
that  the  appearance  of  myself  and  son  was 
satisfactory,  perhaps  attractive,  to  the  keen 
appreciation  of  an  intelligent  Frenchman. 
46 


Sedelmeyer  and  his  daughters  were  also 
in  the  train,  en  route  for  Gastein.  We 
talked  paintings,  and  were  both  of  us 
most  enthusiastic  over  John  Sargent's 
"  Ladies  Acheson."  Sedelmeyer  says  he 
returned  several  times  to  the  Royal  Acad- 
emy to  sit,  and  enjoy  the  delightful  por- 
trait of  those  beautiful  ladies. 

July  16th. 

We  had  an  hour  at  Munich,  where  we 
arrived  about  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
Leaving  our  hand  luggage  with  a  trusty 
trager,  we  took  a  cab  to  where  I  thought 
we  could  buy  some  tennis  balls,  which  sat- 
isfactorily obtained,  and  forgetting  a  new 
silk  umbrella  (which,  I  think,  I  left  at  the 
shop),  will,  I  fear,  cause  Jimmy  to  re- 
member Munich  as  the  place  where  we 
bought  the  tennis  balls  and  lost  the  um- 
brella. Perhaps  a  good  glass  of  beer  that 
he  had  at  the  station  will  be  another  sou- 
venir of  this  to  me  most  interesting  city. 
47 


The  journey  to  Botzen  over  the  Bren- 
ner delights  the  eye  with  an  unvary- 
ing scene  of  beauty.  Mountain  torrents, 
here  and  there  breaking  into  waterfalls; 
vine-clad  hills  crowned  by  ruined  castles 
or  picturesque  monasteries;  a  winding 
macadam  road  coming,  from  time  to  time, 
in  view;  meadows  where,  in  almost  the- 
atrical costumes,  the  peasants  are  tossing 
the  hay ;  and,  towering  over  all,  the  massive 
crags  of  the  Dolomites,  make  a  scene  never 
to  be  forgotten  by  the  American  traveller 
who  knows  only  the  repetition  of  the  cheap 
wooden  constructions  and  ungainly  fac- 
tories that  repeat  themselves  so  constantly 
in  his  own  country.  At  Innsbruck,  where 
we  commenced  the  climb  to  the  Brenner, 
we  sampled  the  beer  at  the  railway  station, 
and  had  a  few  words  with  the  porter  of 
the  Tyrolerhof ,  who  is  a  devoted  friend  of 
Helen's,  a  man  of  smooth  manners,  who 
has  left  me  entirely  in  doubt  as  to  whe- 
ther he  has  an  affection  for  me  and  my 

48 


family  outside  of  the  liberal  tips  that  I 
have  bestowed  on  him  during  the  last  few 
months. 

About  six  in  the  evening  the  train  drew 
up  at  Botzen.  How  we  did  enjoy  our 
baths  and  all  the  other  luxuries  and  com- 
forts of  that  excellent  Hotel  Bristol,  after 
our  twenty-four  hours'  railroad  ride  from 
Paris! 

No  news  from  Helen.  In  the  opinion 
of  the  porter  of  the  Hotel  Bristol,  she  and 
Mrs.  Hurlbut  are  somewhere  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Karer  See.  This  information 
comes  in  a  mysterious  way.  Probably 
their  natty  little  driver  has  been  writing 
his  lady  love,  or  somebody  may  have  seen 
them  and  communicated  the  fact  to  the 
porter.  He  merely  gives  it  as  his  opinion. 

The  Hotel  Mendel  telephones  that  she 
is  expected  there  in  a  day  or  two.  We 
soothed  our  disappointment  at  not  meet- 
ing her,  by  an  excellent  dinner,  after  which 
we  found  a  billiard-table  in  a  cafe  chan- 
49 


tant,  and  had  two  pleasures  combined. 
The  prima  donna  of  the  cafe  chantant 
sang  a  song  depicting  the  sad  terrors  of 
reaching  forty  years  of  age.  As  she  was 
already  there,  and  knew  we  knew  it,  she 
made  it  quite  comical. 

In  the  morning  we  decided  to  drive  to 
Karer  See,  and  take  the  chance  of  meeting 
Helen.  We  acted  wisely.  Half  way  up 
the  mountain  pass,  whom  should  I  see 
seated  on  a  box  next  the  driver,  coming 
down  the  mountain  at  a  good  pace,  but 
Barbara,  all  over  smiles  as  she  caught  sight 
of  me.  Needless  to  say,  there  was  a  grand 
time,  as  our  two  landaus  drew  up,  Jimmy 
and  Helen  greeting  each  other  with  shouts 
of  joy. 

We  three  were  a  gay  party  as  we  drove 
off  with  light  luggage,  waving  good-bye 
to  Mrs.  Hurlbut  and  Barbara,  who  were 
to  return  to  Botzen  and  so  on  to  Mendel, 
awaiting  us  there  after  our  visit  to  Karer 
See. 

50 


From  the  time  my  son  landed  until  the 
delightful  moment  of  recognition,  Helen 
had  been  constantly  in  our  thoughts,  and 
to  meet  her  was  the  objective  point  of  our 
journey.  She  had  passed  the  spring 
months  at  Meran,  desiring  to  have  a  good 
rest  after  the  activities  of  her  New  York 
life. 

Our  home  there  was  in  the  Villa  Impe- 
rial, where  we  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing, 
from  time  to  time,  the  Archduke  and 
Archduchess  Rainer  (who  occupied  the 
premier),  cousins  of  the  Emperor,  an  el- 
derly couple  much  beloved  throughout 
Austria.  The  erect  soldierly  figure,  at- 
tired, as  a  rule,  in  undress  uniform,  a 
kindly  expression,  a  heavy  white  mous- 
tache, a  pleasant  smile  and  a  courteous  ac- 
knowledgement of  the  salutations  which 
he  received  on  all  sides,  made  it  always  a 
pleasure  to  see  the  Archduke  Rainer  in  his 
comings  and  goings.  His  wife,  to  whom 
he  was  devoted,  impressed  me  as  a  good 

51 


soul.  A  children's  fete  in  her  honour 
took  place  on  the  grounds  of  the  Villa  Im- 
perial, much  to  the  delight  of  all  con- 
cerned. 

Another  constant  distinguished  visitor 
was  the  Archduke  Ludwig  Victor,  the 
Emperor's  brother,  who  came  at  one  time, 
almost  every  day,  to  play  tennis  on  the 
dirt  court  belonging  to  the  villa.  His 
partner  was  an  officer  of  rank,  whose  name 
I  have  forgotten.  The  Archduke  im- 
pressed me  as  having  what  I  should  call 
an  historical  countenance,  a  Hapsburg, 
bringing  to  your  mind  the  Stirring  events 
of  past  centuries  with  which  this  name  is 
associated.  He  frequently  took  his  mid- 
day meal  in  a  little  room  adjoining  the 
main  dining-room. 

Captain  Schmidt  von  Schwendt  and 
his  wife  were  also  guests  at  the  Villa  Im- 
perial; the  captain,  having  accompanied 
Prince  Henry  to  America  as  his  personal 
adjutant,  was,  I  think,  renewing  his 

52 


strength  by  a  visit  to  the  Tyrol.  We  be- 
came good  friends. 

Prince  Henry  had  acquired  a  taste  for 
golf  in  China,  and  on  his  suggestion  links 
were  established  at  Kiel,  hence  a  special 
interest  in  the  game  on  the  part  of  the 
captain.  Having  a  set  of  clubs  with  me, 
the  captain  and  a  Russian  gentleman,  who 
was  also  of  our  hotel,  and  myself,  impro- 
vised a  course  on  the  Sports  Platz,  our 
game  consisting  of  a  contest  to  see  who 
would  go  around  the  race -course  in  the 
smallest  number  of  strokes,  penalising 
any  one  who  drove  the  ball  outside  the 
course,  one  stroke;  if  over  the  fence,  two 
strokes;  not  infrequently  a  lost  ball  being 
an  additional  penalty  for  the  latter.  It 
was  good  practice  for  straight  driving  and 
approach  shots. 

I  inquired  of  the  captain  if  it  were 
true  that  at  some  point  in  the  western 
country,  the  roughs,  at  one  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  had  hammered  against  the  Pull- 

53 


man  car,  calling  out  to  Prince  Henry  to 
come  out  and  show  himself;  and  I  was 
much  entertained  to  note  how  carefully 
he  avoided  in  his  reply  any  criticism  of 
the  manners  of  my  countrymen,  explain- 
ing that  it  occurred  at  Springfield,  Ken- 
tucky; that  their  programme  had  not  in- 
cluded this  place,  which  was  the  reason 
why  they  were  not  ready  to  make  their  re- 
spects to  the  inhabitants. 

I  was  much  charmed  with  Madame  von 
Schwendt.  The  simplicity  and  sweetness 
of  her  manner,  combined  with  the  delicacy 
and  force  of  her  perceptions,  have  left 
with  me  a  delightful  recollection. 

While  Helen  was  recuperating  at  Me- 
ran  and  Mendel,  I  passed  some  time  at 
Vienna.  Herr  Laszlo  had  offered  to  paint 
my  portrait. 

Strolling  through  the  spring  exhibition, 
at  Vienna,  I  was  almost  startled  as  I  came 
upon  Laszlo's  portrait  of  Count  Castel- 
lane.  It  was  the  head  only,  wearing  the 

54 


helmet  of  a  cuirassier.  The  eyes  were  mar- 
vellous. I  had  never  seen  the  original,  yet 
I  felt  it  must  be  a  wonderful  likeness.  As 
I  looked  further,  I  saw  the  Emperors  of 
Austria  and  Germany,  the  Pope  and  Car- 
dinal Rampolla,  all  his  work.  I  doubted 
if  a  simple  American  citizen  could  present 
any  attractions  to  him.  I  called  at  his 
studio  about  six  in  the  evening,  on  my  re- 
turn from  the  golf  course,  and  presented 
myself.  Herr  Laszlo  is  a  gentleman  of 
about  thirty-five  years  of  age,  of  middle 
stature,  with  dark  hair  and  piercing  black 
eyes  that  tell  you  that  you  are  face  to  face 
with  a  man  of  superior  power.  I  opened 
the  conversation  in  French,  and  was  an- 
swered by  the  three  words  "  I  speak  Eng- 
lish," to  which  I  replied,  "  I  have  three 
questions  to  ask  you:  Would  you  be  will- 
ing to  paint  my  portrait?  when  could 
you  do  it?  and  what  would  be  the  ex- 
pense? "  I  received  satisfactory  replies  to 
all  three  of  my  requests.  The  work  was 

55 


commenced  one  Monday  in  May,  and  af- 
ter five  or  six  sittings  a  very  good  portrait 
was  produced.  We  had  become  good 
friends.  He  criticised  his  work,  in  my 
presence,  somewhat  in  this  manner:  "  If 
I  were  asked  whose  portrait  that  was,  not 
knowing  you,  I  would  say  it  was  that  of 
an  Australian  farmer,  a  man  with  large 
flocks  and  herds,  a  gentleman  farmer,  you 
know."  On  another  occasion,  looking  at 
the  picture,  he  remarked:  "A  nice  old 
gentleman."  I  was  able  to  bear  these 
compliments  without  blushing. 

I  introduced  Herr  Laszlo  to  the  game 
of  golf.  We  visited  the  races  together; 
lunched  at  the  Bristol.  We  became  com- 
panionable. 

During  my  sittings  I  frequently  looked 
at  a  beautiful  portrait  of  his  attractive 
wife.  He  told  me  of  the  courtship,  which 
had  lasted  nine  years.  They  had  met  at  a 
fancy-dress  ball,  given  at  the  Pinakothek, 
at  Munich.  It  was  love  at  first  sight. 
56 


Miss  Guinness  was  of  one  of  the  first 
families  of  Ireland.  What  could  seem 
more  hopeless!  a  Catholic,  a  young  Hun- 
garian artist,  his  spurs  not  yet  won,  seek- 
ing the  hand  of  a  Scotch  Presbyterian, 
related  to  a  lord,  and  daughter  of  a  de- 
voted mother.  I  need  say  no  more.  Those 
who  have  daughters  will  wonder  that  even 
nine  years  accomplished  it.  Lovers  will 
not. 

I  think  it  was  just  one  week  from  the 
commencement  of  the  portrait,  when,  pre- 
senting myself  as  usual,  about  nine  in 
the  morning,  at  the  studio,  Herr  Laszlo 
turned  the  portrait  upside  down,  an- 
nouncing that  he  was  now  about  to  do 
something  which  would  make  me  believe 
he  was  a  very  impracticable  man.  "  I  can 
paint  a  much  better  portrait  of  you  than 
this  one.  I  know  you  now.  I  did  not  at 
first."  The  present  portrait,  which  has 
been  much  admired  both  in  Paris  and  New 
York,  was  the  result.  The  head  of  the 
57 


original  picture  can  be  seen  on  looking  at 
the  back  of  the  canvass. 

Later,  I  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting 
Madame  Laszlo,  at  Buda  Pesth,  where  she 
and  her  husband  entertained  me  at  a  very 
delightful  lunch  at  the  Park  Club,  which 
is  almost  immediately  opposite  their  hand- 
some residence.  The  Park  Club,  I  may 
add,  is  in  many  respects  superior  to  any 
club-house  I  have  ever  seen  in  a  large  city. 
The  appointments  are  perfect,  the  rooms 
spacious,  furnished  in  excellent  taste,  and 
the  extensive  grounds  are  provided  with 
tennis  courts  and  other  open-air  recrea- 
tions. 

Before  setting  out  on  my  journey  from 
Paris  to  meet  my  son,  I  had  the  pleasure 
of  having  Herr  and  Madame  Laszlo  dine 
with  me  at  the  Ritz.  The  leader  of  the 
Hungarian  band  recognized  a  compatriot 
and  devoted  himself  and  his  orchestra  to 
our  entertainment  throughout  the  evening, 
as  is  customary,  advancing  several  steps 

58 


in  front  toward  us  in  order  that  he  might 
concentrate  his  feeling  on  my  distin- 
guished guests. 

An  interesting  episode  occurred  during 
my  stay  in  Vienna.  An  invitation  that  I 
had  given  to  a  friend  to  accompany  me 
to  the  Ballet  had  been  cancelled,  owing 
to  a  headache.  I  had  offered  the  ticket 
to  one  of  the  gentlemen  who  aid  in 
managing  the  hotel.  He  had  asked  per- 
mission to  present  it,  if  he  found  he  could 
not  go.  I  was  naturally  somewhat  in- 
terested in  seeing  who  my  neighbour  would 
be.  The  seat  was  empty  during  the  first 
piece.  On  my  return,  after  the  entr'acte, 
it  was  occupied  by  a  lady.  After  some 
little  time,  no  attention  whatsoever  having 
been  paid  to  me,  I  offered  a  programme, 
which  was  graciously  accepted.  In  a  few 
moments  we  were  in  conversation  in 
French.  I  recall  a  sentence  which  at  once 
fixed  in  my  mind  the  attractions  of  my 
neighbour.  Looking  at  the  orchestra, 
59 


which  was  immediately  in  front  of  us,  our 
seat  being  on  the  front  row,  she  remarked, 
"  Comme  ils  jouent  tendrement."  The 
word  brought  us  into  sympathy  at  once. 
Another  sentence,  "  Ainsi,  Monsieur,  vous 
voyagez  continuellement  dans  toutes  les 
capitales  de  1'Europe? "  I  thought  of 
Mephistopheles'  reply,  "  Dire  necessite, 
Madame."  She  was  much  too  young  and 
pretty  for  it  to  be  appropriate.  When  the 
opera  was  over,  I  bowed  my  acknowledge- 
ments, and  we  separated.  Later,  I  found 
I  had  been  enjoying  the  society  of  Ma- 
dame Wolfe,  wife  of  the  proprietor  of 
the  Hotel  Bristol,  a  most  accomplished 
linguist,  speaking  English  perfectly.  We 
had  quite  a  laugh  over  our  adventure, 
when  we  met,  later  on,  at  the  hotel;  we 
felt  it  savoured  something  of  the  "  Bal 
Masque." 

To  return  to  our  journey.     Some  ex- 
cellent forellen  for  lunch  was  the  princi- 
pal event,  barring  of  course  the  scenery, 
60 


before  our  arrival  at  Karer  See.  Here 
we  found  a  meadow,  high  up  in  the  moun- 
tains, overlooked  by  the  peaks  and  crags 
of  the  Rosengarten  and  Lattimer  groups. 
The  hotel  is  a  large  stone  building  run 
on  Viennese  lines.  The  guests  were  from 
one  third  to  one  half  "  God's  chosen  peo- 
ple." The  tennis  courts  were  poor  affairs, 
and  mountain  walks,  beneath  the  deep 
shade  of  the  evergreens,  leading  to  charm- 
ing views,  with  here  and  there  a  rude 
seat  for  the  weary,  were  the  chief  at- 
tractions of  the  place.  We  were  put  up 
in  the  Chalet,  and  after  two  nights, 
Jimmy  having  made  the  ascent  of  one  of 
the  peaks  and  Helen  having  made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  the  lovely  little  wife  of  a 
Viennese  doctor,  we  thought  our  visit  was 
over,  and  made  our  preparations  for  de- 
parture on  the  morning  of  July  nine- 
teenth, our  natty  little  coachman,  with  a 
pretty  white  feather  in  his  hat,  that  he  so 
carefully  tucked  Wway  under  the  seat 
61 


whenever  it  rained,  cracking  his  whip  in 
fine  style  as  we  bade  good-bye  to  Karer 
See,  and  rolled  by  the  various  parties  out 
for  their  morning  walks.  Our  journey 
down  was  uneventful.  A  thunder-storm 
kept  us  nearly  an  hour  at  a  wayside  inn, 
and  it  was  nine  in  the  evening  as  we 
drew  up  at  Mendel,  and  were  greeted  by 
Mrs.  Hurlbut,  who,  standing  on  the  steps, 
had  altogether  the  air  of  a  hospitable 
chatelaine  of  a  large  country  house.  I 
might  add  that  she  had  more  than  the  air, 
as  she  had  all  ready  for  us  a  good  evening 
meal. 

Sunday,  July  20th. 

Mendel  is  of  somewhat  recent  date.  A 
military  road,  built  as  only  the  Continent 
builds,  opened  it  up. 

Herr  Schrott,  the  father  of  the  present 

proprietor,  knowing  the  intentions  of  the 

government,  bought  extensive  tracts  of 

land  on  and  about  the  summit  of  the  pass, 

62 


selling  a  portion  of  it  for  a  hotel,  which 
proving  a  success,  he  was  induced  likewise 
to  build. 

A  panorama  of  snow  mountains,  known 
in  part  as  the  Ortler  group,  is  in  fine  relief 
to  the  westward.  A  short  walk  down  the 
road  exposes  to  view  almost  the  entire 
range  of  the  Dolomites,  with  the  valley  of 
the  Etsch  at  one's  feet. 

Botzen  is  in  full  view  to  the  northward. 
Villages  line  the  banks  of  the  Etsch  south- 
ward, while  here  and  there  small  lakes 
lie  half  concealed  by  the  hills  that  sur- 
round them. 

The  wooded  surroundings  of  the  hotel 
are  traversed  by  excellent  footpaths  for 
miles,  in  one  direction  leading  to  an  ex- 
tended view,  including  the  famous  Ber- 
nina,  well  known  to  those  who  have  visited 
the  Engadine ;  in  another  to  parks,  resem- 
bling on  a  small  scale  the  parks  of  the 
Rocky  Mountains,  none  the  less  beautiful 
on  account  of  their  size.  It  required  two 
63 


parks  for  the  five  holes  of  golf  that  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Chapman  and  I  laid  out. 

Herr  Schrott,  our  attentive  host,  is  an 
active  young  man,  about  twenty-five  years 
of  age,  excelling  in  outdoor  sports,  mus- 
cular, being  able  to  break  a  stone  of  some 
size  with  his  fist,  ambitious  to  excel  in 
whatever  he  does.  Helen  and  I  had  many 
good  games  of  tennis  with  him  and  his 
sister,  who  found  time  to  join  us  as  well 
as  to  pursue  her  studies  in  the  culinary 
department.  We  visited  her  in  the  kit- 
chen, where,  under  her  white  cap,  her 
smiling  face  reminded  one  of  a  young 
prima  donna  in  an  opera  bouffe. 

I  must  not  omit  mention  of  my  friend, 
the  head  porter,  erect  and  soldierly  in 
bearing,  attentive  to  his  duties,  always 
cheerful  and  never  flustered.  He  gave 
me  a  sketch  of  his  life,  including,  among 
other  interesting  events,  his  campaign  in 
our  army  during  the  Civil  War. 

In  the  afternoon  a  Tyrolean  band  en- 
64 


livened  the  occasion,  a  large  Sunday  ga- 
thering, more  or  less  in  the  costume  of 
the  country,  giving  a  unique  appearance 
to  this  retired  spot. 

July  21st. 

It  poured  all  day.  We  visited  the  golf 
course  and  came  home  soaked.  We  held 
a  council  of  travel,  and  concluded  that  as 
time  was  of  the  essence,  Jimmy  and  I 
should  be  off  for  Venice,  so  on  the  twenty- 
second,  a  fine  day  after  the  rain,  we  bade 
good-bye  to  Helen  and  Mrs.  Hurlbut, 
and  in  a  little  over  two  hours  were  in 
Botzen. 

Two  young  men  got  out  of  the  train 
that  we  were  to  take  at  Botzen,  to  enjoy 
the  air  and  scene.  They  were  evidently 
fellow-countrymen,  with  a  decided  look  of 
Boston  and  Cambridge.  On  our  arrival 
at  Ala,  I  made  their  acquaintance,  calling 
their  attention  to  the  large  number  of 
baskets  on  the  platform  of  the  station, 
65 


filled  with  laurel  leaves  to  be  sent  to  Ger- 
many, where,  besides  their  use  as  decora- 
tions, they  are  an  important  addition  to 
the  cuisine,  more  especially  for  game. 
These  young  men  asked  that  they  might 
join  us  in  visiting  Verona,  where  we  had 
three  hours  before  taking  the  train  for 
Venice.  We  engaged  a  cab  with  a  broken- 
down  horse,  and  permitting  a  seedy-look- 
ing "  valet  de  place  "  to  mount  by  the 
coachman's  side,  the  six  of  us  rolled  along 
the  streets  of  the  town  until  we  arrived  at 
the  Arena.  The  "  valet  de  place  "  soon 
proved  himself  a  fifth  wheel  to  the  coach, 
but,  as  travellers  know,  once  engaged  it 
was  impossible  to  get  rid  of  him.  We 
saw  the  Arena  at  sunset,  appearing  at  its 
best.  The  official  guide  was  much  pleased 
to  inform  us  that  Baedeker  was  in  error  in 
stating  that  it  held  only  twenty  thousand 
people,  while  it  really  held  sixty  thou- 
sand, and  Buffalo  Bill  had  given  a  per- 
formance to  at  least  forty  thousand. 
66 


From  the  Arena  to  Juliet's  tomb  and  then 
to  the  principal  hotel  of  the  town,  where 
with  little  delay  an  excellent  dinner  was 
set  before  us. 

The  journey  to  Venice  was  more  or  less 
in  the  dark,  and  it  was  only  as,  at  eleven 
o'clock  at  night,  we  walked  out  of  the 
gloomy  railway  station  on  to  the  flight 
of  steps  that  overlook  the  Grand  Canal, 
and  saw  the  gondolas  flying  in  every  di- 
rection, that  my  son  manifested  his  de- 
light and  surprise  by  the  expression: 
"  This  is  great!  "  We  were  soon  gliding 
through  the  narrow  canals,  the  cry  of  the 
gondolier  and  the  plash  of  the  oar  alone 
breaking  the  midnight  silence,  passing 
palaces  gloomy  as  prisons,  decaying  walls 
covered  with  masses  of  drooping  verdure, 
and  under  low  arched  bridges,  we  sitting 
in  silence,  awed  by  the  solemnity  around 
us,  until,  rounding  the  palace  of  the  two 
Foscari,  we  found  ourselves  in  the  Grand 
Canal.  As  we  approached  the  hotel,  a  rich, 
67 


musical  voice  resounded  from  the  Giu- 
decca,  the  last  of  the  Fete  Venitienne,  that 
nightly  wakes  the  echoes  through  the  long 
Italian  summer. 

The  manager  of  the  Grand,  where  I 
am  a  favoured  guest,  was  awaiting  us,  and 
we  were  shown  to  palatial  apartments 
overlooking  the  Grand  Canal.  We  could 
almost  have  played  a  game  of  tennis  in 
our  sitting-room,  and  several  squash 
courts  could  have  been  put  up  in  the  bed- 
room, notwithstanding  all  of  which  the 
beds  were  hard  and  the  pillows  small. 

My  acquaintance  with  the  manager  of 
the  Grand  arose  in  this  way.  About  the 
month  of  June,  for  several  years,  I  had 
been  in  the  habit  of  making  a  European 
trip  of  two  or  three  months,  leaving  my 
children  in  our  little  home  at  Tuxedo  un- 
der the  care  of  their  faithful  "  Fraulein." 
Helen  and  Jimmy  tell  me  now  that  when 
I  left  them  that  night  they  sobbed  them- 
selves to  sleep  in  each  other's  arms.  This 
68 


is  the  first  I  have  heard  of  their  distress 
on  account  of  my  departure.  It  is  fortu- 
nate for  me  that  I  have  been  so  long  igno- 
rant of  their  affectionate  sorrow. 

On  these  trips  I  would  wander  alone 
from  place  to  place,  revisiting  scenes  sur- 
rounded in  the  past  with  delightful  asso- 
ciations, and  gratifying  my  curiosity  by 
the  sight  of  some  of  the  interesting  re- 
sorts with  which  I  was  familiar  by 
name. 

Venice  in  the  summer  has  always  been 
one  of  my  greatest  delights.  I  love  in  the 
warm  sunlight  of  the  afternoon  to  float 
by  the  Public  Gardens,  their  white  stone 
balustrade  and  beautifully  proportioned 
entrance  thrown  into  relief  by  the  back- 
ground of  rich  foliage.  One  may  mount 
the  flight  of  steps  and  in  the  deep  shade 
pace  beneath  the  lofty  plane-trees  that 
have  given  to  many  a  child  in  Venice  the 
first  knowledge  of  what  the  woods  might 
be.  As  we  glide  on,  we  pass  the  rose- 
69 


tinted  Doge's  Palace,  the  Campanile  of 
San  Giorgio,  always  in  sight  as  the  de- 
clining sun  warms  it  with  a  soft  reddish 
glow,  the  dainty  white  columns  of  the 
church,  at  its  base,  adding  to  its  charm. 
Across  the  water  shines  the  gilded  figure 
of  Fortuna  on  the  Custom  House;  the 
massive  dome  of  Santa  Maria  della  Sa- 
lute, as  the  sun  descends,  delights  the  eye 
with  its  sheen  and  shadows;  at  night,  re- 
clining on  the  soft  cushions  of  the  gondola, 
as  we  approach  the  Piazetta,  a  subdued 
murmur  comes  over  the  water — the  same 
murmuring  whisper  that  has  been  wafted 
over  the  lagoon  for  centuries.  Among 
the  busy  haunts  of  men,  where  will  we  find 
a  scene  of  beauty  created  by  man  that  has 
so  successfully  escaped  the  hand  of  timei 
I  love  to  think  that  all  around  us  is  as 
it  was  when  Othello  made  love  to  Desde- 
mona,  and  Shylock  bartered  with  Anto- 
nio. Let  us  hope  it  may  remain  so,  and 
that  the  warning  of  the  Campanile  may  be 
70 


a  lesson  that  will  last  for  a  thousand  years 
and  more. 

Talking  with  the  porter  of  the  Grand 
Hotel,  I  learned  of  an  interesting  trip 
northward  to  Cortina,  and  was  told  it 
could  all  be  arranged  for  me;  taking  the 
morning  train  for  Treviso,  passing  an 
hour  or  two  there,  and  then  on  to  Belluno, 
by  rail,  where  I  arrived  about  four  in  the 
afternoon.  A  landau  was  awaiting  me, 
and  with  little  delay  my  trunk  was  fas- 
tened on  to  it,  a  nice-looking  well-dressed 
man,  of  whom  more  anon,  aiding  in  the 
operation.  As  we  drove  over  a  good  road 
lined  with  rich  foliage,  walnut-trees  for 
the  most  part,  from  village  to  village,  I 
was  amused  by  my  driver,  who,  vigor- 
ously snapping  his  whip,  would  call  to 
the  window  many  a  bright  young  face 
with  which  he  exchanged  a  smile.  Did 
each  pair  of  black  eyes  think  it  was  the 
only  one  thus  favoured? 

Arriving  at  dusk  at  Ospitale,  I  was 
71 


somewhat  surprised  by  being  told  by  my 
driver  that  he  could  take  me  no  farther. 
I  was  about  to  remonstrate,  when  he 
pointed  out  a  young  woman,  dressed  in 
the  picturesque  costume  of  the  country, 
telling  me  that  she  had  come  to  meet  me, 
that  she  was  the  daughter  of  the  proprie- 
tor of  the  inn  to  which  I  was  going,  and 
would  look  after  me.  Foreseeing  a  long 
drive  in  her  company,  and  appreciating 
the  importance  of  some  knowledge  of  her 
state,  I  sought  information  from  my 
driver,  who,  as  he  was  about  to  leave,  in- 
formed me  that  she  was  engaged  to  be 
married  to  the  man  who  had  helped  to 
fasten  on  my  trunk.  I  felt  at  once  that  I 
was  not  without  a  means  of  interesting  her. 
After  a  poor  meal  at  Ospitale,  I  told 
her  I  was  ready  to  go.  A  rather  shabby 
one-horse  vehicle  appeared  on  the  scene, 
into  which  I  got,  the  young  woman  pre- 
paring to  mount  the  narrow  seat  next  the 
driver.  She  hesitated  before  accepting 
72 


my  invitation  to  sit  with  me,  and,  after 
getting  in,  drew  very  much  to  one  side, 
evidently  looking  upon  me  as  a  person  to 
be  treated  with  great  respect.  Almost 
her  first  remark  was  to  ask  me  my  opinion 
of  the  meal  we  had  just  finished.  I  ap- 
preciated at  once  the  fact  that  she  was 
a  rival  in  innkeeping,  and  we  commenced 
our  friendship  by  roundly  abusing  what 
had  been  offered  us,  more  especially  the 
chicken,  not  sparing  the  butter. 

It  was  a  beautiful  moonlight  night,  con- 
ducive to  companionship,  and  as  we  both 
studied  to  please,  the  time  passed  pleas- 
antly. As  we  passed,  from  time  to  time, 
the  small  chapels  that  line  the  road,  she 
crossed  herself.  On  one  occasion  I  took 
off  my  hat,  which  caused  her  to  turn 
sharply  upon  me,  and  ask  if  I  were  a 
Protestant.  Replying  that  I  was,  she 
astonished  me  by  the  question,  "  Do  Prot- 
estants believe  in  God?  "  Remembering 
that  on  one  occasion  the  Bishop  of  Oxford, 
73 


in  a  speech  in  the  House  of  Lords,  had 
gone  so  far  as  to  say  that  there  was  really 
no  difference  in  the  teachings  of  the  Eng- 
lish Church  and  the  Catholic  Church,  I 
took  his  words  as  my  text,  and  endea- 
voured to  explain  how  little  difference 
there  was  between  the  religious  views  of 
the  Protestants  and  the  Catholics.  I  was 
getting  on  very  well,  I  thought,  until,  her 
eyes  brilliant  with  a  trace  of  anger  at  my 
daring  to  try  to  make  her  believe  that 
Protestants  are  as  good  as  Catholics,  she 
uttered  in  a  shrill,  clear-cut  voice  these 
three  words, "E  la  Madonna?"  I  can  hear 
her  now  in  my  mind,  as  one  recalls  the 
voice  of  a  favourite  opera-singer.  What 
could  I  say?  She  revealed  so  clearly  to 
me  the  power  of  the  devotion  to  the  Vir- 
gin, the  strength  of  the  Church  in  having 
found  a  sure  road  to  the  human  heart 
through  the  love  of  a  mother,  that  unsel- 
fish love  that  in  adversity  grows  stronger, 
when  the  love  of  friends  grows  weaker, 
74 


the  image  of  a  mother  and  a  child  turn- 
ing away  the  thought  of  sin  and  answer- 
ing the  feeling  of  love.  Her  question  was 
a  sermon  in  three  words.  I  changed  the 
conversation  (there  was  nothing  else  to 
do) ,  saying  to  her,  "  When  are  you  going 
to  be  married? "  She  started  back  in 
painful  surprise,  saying,  "  How  did  you 
know  that  I  was  engaged?  "  I  answered, 
with  a  wave  of  the  hand,  "  Why,  the  whole 
valley  knows  it."  (It  was,  perhaps, 
hardly  fair  in  me  to  make  so  broad  a  state- 
ment.) It  altered  her  whole  manner  to- 
ward me.  We  sat  in  silence  for  a  few 
moments,  then  she  confided  the  whole 
story  to  me — how  the  man  had  nothing, 
and  no  employment,  what  a  good  man  he 
was,  and  how  much  she  loved  him.  I  sym- 
pathised with  her,  and  she  treated  me  as 
a  friend  in  whom  she  could  repose  con- 
fidence. 

As  we  neared  Perarolo,  a  bright  young 
girl  of  about  sixteen  years  of  age  came 
75 


running  toward  us,  crying  out,  "  Cata- 
rina."  It  was  her  younger  sister,  who  had 
been  waiting  impatiently  for  her  arri- 
val. She  ran  by  the  side  of  our  vehicle, 
conversing  with  her  sister,  until  we  ar- 
rived at  their  home,  a  little  house  pictur- 
esquely situated  on  the  side  of  a  hill.  I 
suppose  Catarina  had  said  some  good 
words  for  me,  as  I  was  treated  most  com- 
panionably  from  the  start.  They  offered 
to  prepare  me  a  supper,  which  I  declined. 
The  fireplace  was  in  the  centre  of  the 
kitchen,  a  square  of  some  four  feet,  bor- 
dered with  stone,  the  ashes  heaped  up  in 
a  mound,  and  the  smoke  going  out  of  an 
opening  at  the  top  of  the  room.  We  sat 
down  at  a  table,  and  they  brought  out 
a  pasteboard  box  containing  their  treas- 
ures, mostly  cards  of  English  people  who 
had  stopped  with  them  and  had  left  a  few 
words  written  on  their  cards  to  express 
their  pleasure  at  the  manner  in  which 
they  had  been  entertained.  I  found  Dean 
76 


Stanley's  card,  and  a  letter  written  by 
Gladstone's  secretary.  I  think  it  was 
signed,  "  Montague."  They  had  already 
told  me  that  Gladstone  had  been  one  of 
their  guests  for  several  days.  The  letter 
read  about  as  follows:  "Mr.  Gladstone 

desires  me  to  say  in  reply  to  yours  of 

that  he  is  quite  unable  to  be  of  any  assis- 
tance to  you."  They  would  not  tell  me 
at  first  what  their  demand  on  him  had 
been,  but  I  finally  got  out  of  them  that 
they  had  an  impression  that  he  was  a 
man  of  immense  wealth,  which  was  their 
idea  of  Prime  Minister.  They  had  writ- 
ten to  ask  if  he  would  lend  them  the 
money  with  which  to  build  a  hotel.  I 
think  they  were  a  little  ashamed  of  what 
they  had  done.  I  could  hardly  keep  from 
laughing. 

Catarina  took  me  to  my  bedroom,  which 
was  clean  and  had  an  air  of  comfort. 
One  may  be  quite  assured  their  distin- 
guished guests  would  not  have  remained 
77 


with  them  if  such  had  not  been  the 
case. 

As  we  stood  by  the  bureau,  looking  at 
some  trifling  pieces  of  jewelry  I  had 
bought  in  Venice,  her  name  was  called  in 
a  reproachful  tone  of  voice  from  the  door 
by  her  younger  sister,  who,  I  think,  had 
very  decided  views  on  the  propriety  of 
Catarina's  enjoying  the  society  of  any 
other  man  than  the  one  to  whom  she  was 
engaged.  Catarina  complimented  me  by 
paying  no  attention  to  her  sister.  The  call 
was  so  plaintively  reproachful  that  my 
feelings  were  divided.  My  judgement  in- 
clined toward  the  younger  sister.  I  en- 
couraged Catarina  to  choose  the  little 
present  she  had  in  hand,  over  which  she 
was  debating,  and  to  bid  me  good  night. 
The  younger  sister  was  a  better  matron 
than  Dame  Schwerline. 

I  slept  well  in  a  comfortable  bed,  awak- 
ening about  eight,  just  in  time  to  see 
the  younger  sister  coming  into  my  room 
78 


on  tiptoe,  bringing  me  a  pitcher  of  hot 
water. 

A  mountain  torrent,  the  Piave,  a  saw- 
mill in  the  distance,  a  picturesque  little 
village,  and  the  green  slopes  of  the  moun- 
tain sides  were  the  features  of  Perarolo. 

I  made  a  bargain  with  the  father,  a  fine- 
looking  old  man,  to  drive  me  to  Cortina, 
and  shortly  after  lunch  we  set  out  on  our 
journey.  He  informed  me  that  Catarina 
had  begged  him  to  let  her  go  along,  and 
that  he  had  sternly  refused,  considering 
it  a  breach  of  propriety,  which  I  distinctly 
approved.  I  fell  asleep  before  long,  and 
when  I  awoke  we  had  passed  Pieve  di 
Cadore,  the  birthplace  of  Titian,  where 
a  small  statue  has  been  erected  to  him. 
The  old  man  seemed  to  feel  the  responsi- 
bility of  my  having  missed  the  one  sight 
of  the  neighbourhood,  telling  me  that, 
after  all,  it  did  not  amount  to  much,  and 
that  it  was  not  much  higher  than  the 
length  of  my  umbrella. 
79 


We  passed  the  Austrian  frontier  with- 
out trouble,  and  arrived  at  Cortina  about 
four  o'clock, — a  highly  esteemed  resort 
which  was  not  quite  up  to  my  expecta- 
tions. I  had  not  been  there  long  before 
whom  should  I  see  but  Catarina,  driving 
into  the  village,  sitting  on  the  back  seat 
of  a  landau,  in  company  with  a  well- 
dressed  man.  She  had  a  worried  look  on 
her  face.  I  intended  to  go  on  to  Toblach 
to  pass  the  night  there,  and  when  I  found 
that  her  companion  was  the  manager  of 
the  Grand  Hotel  at  Venice,  who  was  tak- 
ing a  tour  for  his  health,  I  invited  him 
to  drive  with  me,  an  invitation  which  he 
seemed  please  to  accept. 

The  drive  from  Cortina  to  Toblach  is 
charming.  The  pink-coloured  Dolomites 
are  in  view  for  much  of  the  time,  and  de- 
light and  astonish  by  their  massive  gran- 
deur and  exquisite  colours. 

My  new  companion  and  I  had  much 
conversation  over  Catarina  and  her  fu- 

80 


ture,  reasoning  out  the  question  of  whe- 
ther it  was  wise  in  her  to  marry,  she  hav- 
ing appealed  to  both  of  us  in  turn  for 
advice.  There  was  something  to  me  pe- 
culiarly agreeable  to  find  myself  drawn 
into  a  confidential  relation  regarding  the 
future  of  a  young  girl  in  this,  to  me,  new 
and  interesting  part  of  Italy. 

Catarina,  I  hear,  is  happily  married.  I 
look  forward  some  day  to  revisiting  Pera- 
rolo,  and  hope  that  I  shall  find  her  as  at- 
tractive as  when  we  parted.  I  am  some- 
what fearful,  however,  that  the  care  of  a 
family  and  the  trials  of  inn-keeping  may 
have  left  their  marks. 

It  seems  Catarina's  brother  was  em- 
ployed at  the  Grand  Hotel  in  Venice, 
which  explains  the  selection  for  me  of  her 
father's  inn  by  the  porter. 

My  drive  from  Cortina  to  Toblach  with 
the  manager  also  explains  why  my  son 
and  I  were  given  the  best  rooms  in  the 
Grand. 

81 


It  was  quite  early  in  the  morning  when 
I  hied  out  to  the  "Piazza"  to  see  the  ruins 
of  the  "Campanile";  the  first  effect  was 
somewhat  similar  to  the  impression  pro- 
duced after  a  big  fire  on  Broadway :  a  pile 
of  bricks  surrounded  by  a  board  fence, 
and,  in  the  distance,  the  entrance  of  the 
Doge's  Palace,  looking  as  if  it  had  been 
stained  by  smoke.  St.  Mark's  stood  out 
well,  no  longer  dwarfed  by  the  huge  Cam- 
panile. 

We  passed  the  morning  first  in  taking 
kodak  pictures  of  the  ruins  in  the  Piazza, 
then  a  short  visit  to  St.  Mark's,  which  we 
found  crowded  with  the  devout,  many 
kneeling  on  the  undulating  mosaic  pave- 
ment, and  finally  an  hour  or  two  in  the 
Doge's  Palace.  We  were  amused  by  a 
young  lady,  seated  in  the  council-chamber, 
with  a  Baedeker  in  one  hand  and  Hare's 
"Walks  in  Venice"  in  the  other,  and  her 
eyes  wandering  on  the  walls  and  ceiling, 
and  from  book  to  book.  Fortunately,  she 

82 


did  not  see  our  expressions  of  amusement. 
We  did  the  whole  thing  very  thoroughly, 
prison  and  all. 

My  desire  has  been  throughout  our 
journey  to  save  my  son  from  the  fatigue 
of  sight-seeing,  and  make  his  visit  one  of 
pleasure  unalloyed  by  the  feeling  that  the 
sights  must  be  seen  even  if  they  cannot  be 
enjoyed,  reminding  him  from  time  to  time 
that  I  was  only  introducing  him  to  Dame 
Europa,  and  that  many  opportunities 
would  almost  certainly  arise  when  he  could 
more  thoroughly  investigate  the  inexhaus- 
tible stores  of  art,  science,  and  history  that 
she  holds  in  her  hands.  The  afternoon  in- 
cluded a  bath  in  the  Lido,  and  the  even- 
ing was  passed  on  that  most  delightful  of 
all  waters,  the  Grand  Canal  on  a  fine  sum- 
mer's night.  As  I  sat  alone  at  midnight 
on  the  little  balcony  of  the  hotel,  close  to 
the  entrance,  a  gondola  drew  up  with 
three  men  in  it,  one  an  elderly  gentleman 
who  seemed,  as  he  walked  into  the  hotel, 

83 


somewhat  dazed  and  lost  in  his  surround- 
ings, as  his  companions  called  to  him, 
' You  are  going  the  wrong  way,  Mr. 
Smith."  His  general  make-up  interested 
me,  and  I  awaited  an  opportunity  to  make 
his  acquaintance. 

July  24th. 

Continued  fine  weather.  We  visited  the 
"  Rialto,"  passing  our  hands  over  the 
glossy  surface  of  the  stone  balustrade, 
wondering  how  it  had  taken  on  such  a  pol- 
ish. Having  left  the  hotel  without  a  hand- 
kerchief, I  purchased  one  in  a  shop  on  the 
bridge,  from  a  man  who  might  have  been 
a  descendant  of  Jessica.  In  the  Fruit 
Market  we  searched  for  ripe  peaches ;  they 
were  all  hard,  at  least  on  one  side.  One 
must  go  to  Paris  to  enjoy  the  peach  in  per- 
fection, that  tender,  luscious  fruit  with 
such  a  delightful,  penetrating  fragrance. 

In  the  Fish  Market  we  saw  the  huge, 

84 


coarse  tunny  fish;  from  there  to  the 
"  Belli  Arti,"  lolling  at  our  ease  in  that 
most  comfortable  of  all  conveyances,  the 
gondola. 

What  more  distracting  to  the  inquiring 
mind  of  youth  than  a  picture-gallery!  I 
suggested  to  my  son  that  he  should  carry 
away  the  impression  of  one  picture  only, 
choosing  for  him  Titian's  "  Presentation 
in  the  Temple."  I  pointed  out  the  rich 
colouring  and  how  the  picture  had  been 
made  to  suit  its  location,  permitting  a  door 
of  the  Academy  to  open,  to  the  sacrifice  of 
its  lower  line ;  and  how  skilfully  the  artist 
had  centred  the  interest  of  the  picture  in 
the  child-like  figure,  her  little  hand  care- 
fully gathering  up  her  blue  dress,  a  flood 
of  light  around  her  as  she  mounts  the  steps 
of  the  temple,  the  eyes  of  the  richly  at- 
tired company  watching  her  as  she  is  about 
to  be  received  by  the  venerable  high  priest 
who  with  outspread  arms  awaits  her. 
Theophile  Gautier  is  authority  for  the 

85 


statement,  that  tradition  says  Titian 
painted  this  picture  at  the  age  of  fourteen. 

We  visited  the  interiors  of  Santa  Maria 
della  Salute  and  San  Giorgio,  and  enjoyed 
their  harmonious  proportions  and  the 
elaborate  wood-carvings  of  their  choirs. 
I  was  interested  in  watching  a  priest  of 
forty  years  of  age  or  thereabouts  showing 
the  carvings  to  a  handsome  young  Veni- 
tienne,  observing  that  his  sacred  mission 
had  not  eliminated  entirely  that  tender  re- 
gard for  the  sympathy  of  the  opposite  sex 
that  all  good  men  should  have. 

Later  in  the  day  we  had  our  usual  de- 
lightful bath  at  the  Lido,  thus  filling  up 
the  time  very  fully  until  the  hour  of 
dining. 

After  dinner  I  observed  considerable 
movement  in  the  party  of  guests  who  had 
arrived  the  same  evening  with  Mr.  Smith. 
A  gentleman,  who  was  evidently  the 
leading  mind,  was  making  arrangements 
with  one  of  the  music-boats.  He  was  in 
86 


charge  of  the  party,  which  was  one  of 
"  De  Potter's  Tours,"  composed  of  nice- 
looking  people,  ladies  predominating.  I 
noted  particularly  the  cry  of  one  young 
lady,  '  We  do  not  want  to  be  tied," 
which  meant  that  she  did  not  care  to 
have  the  gondola  they  were  in  tied  to 
the  music-boat.  '  There  are  plenty  of 
others  who  do,  if  you  do  not,"  was  the  an- 
swer. Taking  our  gondola,  we  followed 
the  little  fleet  up  the  Grand  Canal,  the 
number  of  gondolas  increasing  rapidly. 
Enjoying  the  delightful  music,  we  found 
ourselves  finally  underneath  the  Rialto, 
and  as  one  of  the  steamers  passed  us  at  a 
very  low  rate  of  speed,  the  gondoliers  in- 
dulged in  loud  cries  of  Venetian  anger  at 
the  disturbance;  all  of  which  very  much 
interested  Jimmy,  and,  I  think,  he  ex- 
claimed for  the  second  time,  '  This  is 
great!  "  From  the  Rialto  we  returned  by 
the  narrow  canals,  coming  out  in  front  of 
the  Salute,  which  was  illuminated  by  Ben- 
87 


gal  lights.  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  their 
addition  was  an  improvement  to  the  scene. 
However,  I  will  say  that  De  Potter's 
agent  contrived  for  us  a  most  delightful 
evening. 

The  following  day  we  determined  on  a 
game  of  tennis  at  the  Lido,  where  is  a  dirt 
court.  The  sun  was  so  bright  and  hot  that 
we  were  soon  satisfied,  and  took  to  the  sea, 
enjoying~a  delightful  bath. 

That  evening  I  found  Mr.  Smith 
seated  with  his  friends,  and  took  the  lib- 
erty of  speaking  to  him.  He  received  my 
advances  in  an  agreeable  manner,  and  I 
learned  his  story.  He  was  one  of  De  Pot- 
ter's tourists.  He  informed  us  that  he 
was  from  Terre  Haute,  pronouncing  it 
"Terry  Hut,"  and  that  the  entire  expense 
of  the  De  Potter  tour  from  New  York 
to  Antwerp,  as  far  north  as  Amsterdam, 
as  far  east  as  Vienna,  and  as  far  south 
as  Venice,  and  so  back  to  Antwerp,  via 
Paris,  was  only  three  hundred  dollars,  the 

88 


number  of  days  occupied  being  sixty, 
which  would  give  five  dollars  a  day.  On 
my  suggesting  that  he  had  left  his  tour 
of  Europe  rather  late  in  life — he  was 
seventy-five — he  told  us  how  it  all  came 
about.  "My  daughter  wanted  me  to 
come.  I  told  her  if  she  could  get  her  uncle, 
who  lived  down  in  Vincennes,  to  go,  then 
I  'd  go.  You  see,  I  had  no  idea  he  would 
go,  and  when  he  surprised  me  by  saying 
he  would,  of  course  I  had  to  come  along." 
We  talked  about  railroads,  he  remarking 
that  the  President  of  the  Chicago  &  East- 
ern Illinois  was  a  pretty  cute  sort  of  a  man, 
and  that  he  had  got  the  best  railroad  on 
which  to  go  to  Chicago.  He  wished  to 
know  if  I  knew  one  of  their  number,  Mr. 
B.,  of  Brooklyn.  I  did  not,  but  said  the 
name  sounded  to  me  as  if  he  were  a  Wall 
Street  man.  "That  is  just  what  I  think," 
he  said,  with  an  energy  implying  the  solu- 
tion of  a  problem  more  or  less  frequently 
discussed,  adding  in  a  lower  tone,  "He 
89 


seems  to  have  plenty  of  money,"  to  which 
I  replied  that  Wall  Street  men,  whether 
they  were  rich  or  not,  were  usually  able 
freely  to  gratify  all  their  personal  wants. 
The  impression  was  left  on  my  mind  that 
the  members  of  the  tour  were  as  much  in- 
terested in  the  historical  research  of  each 
other's  past  as  they  were  in  that  of  the 
varied  objects  of  interest  so  constantly  suc- 
ceeding each  other  in  their  rapid  journey. 
He  was  anxious  to  know  all  about  me, 
which,  perhaps,  was  only  fair,  after  he  had 
told  me  so  much  about  himself.  I  intro- 
duced him  to  my  son,  and  his  first  re- 
mark was,  "  Did  you  ever  live  on  Water 
Street  before?" — a  remark  not  calculated 
to  increase  the  poetic  impression  that 
Venice  undoubtedly  carries  with  it  in  the 
evening. 

We  made  a  very  pleasant  call  on  Signor 

Dino  Barozzi.  This  gentleman  belongs  to 

one  of  the  good  old  families  of  Venice. 

His  father  lately  occupied  one  of  the  high- 

90 


est  official  positions  in  the  gift  of  the  city, 
requiring  him,  among  other  duties,  to  ap- 
pear in  uniform  at  the  railway  station 
from  time  to  time  to  receive  important 
personages  coming  to  visit  Venice,  being 
known  as  the  "  Cicerone  of  Kings."  He 
is  now,  I  believe,  retired  to  the  more  modest 
position  of  presiding  officer  of  one  of  the 
museums.  The  son  whom  we  visited  is  a 
fine-looking  man  about  forty  years  of  age, 
with  an  easy,  agreeable  address.  It  is  de- 
lightful to  hear  him  speak  the  beautiful 
language  of  his  country.  One  wishes  it 
were  possible  to  imitate  him.  I  recall 
with  great  pleasure  a  visit  Sam  and  I 
made  some  three  years  ago  to  his  country 
place  situated  on  the  road  to  Padua.  We 
met  him,  on  a  fine  Sunday  morning  in 
May,  at  the  steamboat  landing,  a  little  be- 
fore nine  o'clock,  where  we  found  him 
with  his  three  little  daughters  and  their 
governess,  his  wife  with,  I  think,  the  same 
number  of  children  having  gone  by  the 
91 


eight  o'clock  boat.  I  was  much  interested 
throughout  the  day  to  see  how  ingeniously 
she  had  contrived  to  combine  her  domestic 
duties  and  the  grace  of  a  most  agreeable 
hostess.  An  amusing  incident  occurred  at 
the  midday  meal.  A  most  attractive-look- 
ing dish  of  asparagus  was  passed  round. 
Madame  Barozzi  declined  it  with  an  air 
of  indifference ;  the  governess  in  a  decided 
manner,  the  children  one  after  another  also 
shaking  their  heads  as  the  plate  was  of- 
fered them,  until  it  arrived  to  the  young- 
est, who,  making  a  motion  with  the  evident 
intention  of  helping  herself,  created  quite 
a  stir  around  her,  which  at  once  checked 
her.  It  was  so  evident  that  the  mother 
had  instructed  them  not  to  touch  the 
dish,  owing  to  the  limited  number  of 
spears  which  their  garden  had  been  able 
to  supply,  that  a  smile  went  round  the 
table  at  the  confusion  of  the  little  child; 
the  bitterness  of  thoughtless  disobedience, 
the  mortification  caused  by  the  looks  and 
92 


smiles  of  her  sisters,  coloured  her  sweet 
little  face  crimson.  The  blood  of  her 
ancestors  came  to  her  rescue,  her  dignity 
was  preserved;  and  a  general  recognition 
of  the  situation,  with  which  no  one  of 
us,  except,  perhaps,  the  governess,  could 
be  entirely  satisfied,  found  its  solution 
in  laughter.  I  do  not  think  I  have  ever 
tasted  such  luscious  asparagus,  nor  have 
I  ever  partaken  of  anything  where  I  felt 
so  cheap.  Even  the  resurrection  of  the 
feudal  law  placing  the  wife  as  first  vassal 
would  hardly  have  reconciled  our  position, 
and  when  it  came  to  the  American  view 
of  the  treatment  of  women  and  children, 
nothing  but  the  amusement  that  the  scene 
created  saved  the  situation.  The  children 
were  consoled  for  the  loss  of  the  asparagus 
by  a  liberal  supply  of  wood-strawberries 
and  sponge-cake. 

Signor  Barozzi  gave  us  an  interesting 
account  of  the  details  of  what  had  been 
done  to  the  Campanile,  and  which,  in  his 
93 


opinion,  had  caused  its  fall.  It  seems  a 
new  architect  had  lately  been  appointed  to 
care  for  this  noble  monument.  He  had 
conceived  the  idea  of  putting  in  a  horizon- 
tal water  conduit  to  save  the  "  Loggia  " 
from  being  further  stained.  The  masons, 
having  chipped  out  the  bricks,  were  sur- 
prised by  the  falling  within  of  great 
masses  of  rubbish,  and  immediately  the 
tower  began  to  settle  over  the  opening 
they  had  made.  A  general  consternation 
then  took  possession  of  all  concerned,  and, 
as  we  know,  in  a  few  days  the  Campanile 
fell  to  the  ground.  Our  conversation  was 
in  French,  and  in  describing  the  event, 
Signor  Barozzi  remarked  that  the  Cam- 
panile had  fallen  like  a  "  gentleman " 
(using  the  English  word),  having  care- 
fully avoided  causing  any  damage  to  St. 
Mark's.  I  thought  it  quite  complimen- 
tary to  the  English  language  that  he 
should  have  chosen  this  word.  There  is 
certainly  no  synonym  in  French  which 
94 


expresses  all  that  the  word  "  gentleman  " 
carries  with  it. 

After  three  delightful  days  in  Venice, 
and  three  delightful  evenings,  the  warm 
sunlight  in  the  latter  part  of  the  afternoon 
giving  that  soft  colour  to  the  various 
buildings  of  historic  interest  and  exqui- 
site architectural  proportions  that  lovers 
of  Venice  know  so  well,  we  took  the  morn- 
ing train  on  July  twenty-sixth  and  were 
in  Milan  in  time  for  lunch  at  the  railway- 
station  restaurant.  At  a  table  near  us  sat 
a  shrewd-looking  elderly  nun,  with  a 
square  masculine  face,  accompanied  by  a 
sister,  who,  I  imagine,  looked  up  to  her 
with  awe,  if  not  with  fear.  I  could  not 
help  thinking,  as  I  saw  her  reading  what 
I  supposed  was  a  letter,  that  she  and  such 
as  she  are  a  great  factor  in  the  world  that 
will  not  be  altogether  downed  by  the  most 
powerful  of  governments. 

A  visit  to  Leonardo's  "  Last  Supper  " 
and  an  interesting  walk  through  the  ca- 
95 


thedral  with  a  very  intelligent  and  agreea- 
ble official  guide,  consumed  most  of  the 
afternoon. 

We  were  bound  for  Pallanza,  where 
we  intended  to  pass  the  night,  our  train 
leaving  about  five  o'clock.  To  my  sur- 
prise, it  was  something  of  an  excursion 
train,  with  more  or  less  of  a  struggle  tak- 
ing place  to  obtain  even  a  foothold,  and 
with  our  cumbrous  hand  baggage  we  were 
only  able  to  get  standing-room.  My  son 
and  I  have  had  several  instances  where 
the  use  of  short  sentences  or  words  has 
furnished  us  with  an  enduring  source  of 
enjoyment.  At  the  Buffalo  Exposition, 
on  Ohio  Day,  we  were  present  in  that  ill- 
fated  building  where,  from  the  very  plat- 
form on  which  our  much  beloved  Presi- 
dent was  shot,  Mark  Hanna  delivered 
the  address  of  the  day.  As  we  rose  to  sep- 
arate, we  were  entertained  by  hearing 
the  Ohio  men,  many  in  shirt  sleeves,  as  the 
day  was  exceedingly  warm,  congratulat- 
96 


ing  each  other  with  the  expression  "  Mark 
did  well!" 

Their  own  satisfaction  in  alluding  to 
him  by  his  first  name  was  evident,  and  we 
have  on  semi-appropriate  occasions  often 
repeated  to  each  other,  "  Mark  did  well!  " 
The  afternoon  that  I  am  about  to  de- 
scribe added  another  expression — "  Par- 
tenza  " — to  our  repertoire.  Half  way  to 
Pallanza  we  were  compelled  to  change  car- 
riages, and  not  being  aware  of  it  until 
most  of  the  passengers  had  stowed  them- 
selves away,  we  found  ourselves  on  the 
platform  with  little  prospect  of  a  seat,  or 
even  standing-room.  The  porter  who  car- 
ried our  baggage  assured  us  that  more 
carriages  would  be  put  on,  as  we  were  not 
alone  in  our  dilemma.  A  seedy-looking 
individual  in  a  red  cap,  a  sous-chef,  soon 
was  seen  peering  in  the  carriage  win- 
dows in  order  to  see  if  every  place  were 
taken.  We  declined  to  separate,  feeling 
sure  that  the  extra  carriages  were  to  be 
97 


put  on.  The  chef  de  la  gare  then  came  on 
the  scene,  an  equally  seedy-looking  per- 
sonage of  more  mature  years.  I  made 
the  blunder  of  asking  him  if  he  spoke 
French,  which  disposed  him  still  less  fa- 
vourably toward  us.  He  pointed  out  sin- 
gle seats  in  different  railway  carriages, 
which  would  have  separated  us,  and  at 
the  same  time  would  have  given  us  little 
or  no  space,  as  far  as  we  could  see,  to 
stow  away  our  belongings.  He  did  not 
wait  long  after  we  declined  his  invitation 
to  mount.  Grasping  the  open  carriage 
door  in  a  resolute  manner,  a  sardonic  smile 
on  his  face  (he  had  evidently  often  played 
the  trick),  he  gave  it  a  bang,  screaming 
at  the  top  of  his  voice,  "  Partenza!  "  The 
effect  was  electrical.  We  piled  in,  bag 
and  baggage,  paying  no  attention  to  the 
protests  of  the  occupants,  who  received 
us  more  than  coldly.  I  tried  to  thaw 
out  the  gentleman  next  to  me  by  ask- 
ing him  to  point  out  on  the  map  in 
98 


Baedeker  just  where  we  were  to  leave  the 
train  for  the  boat.  One  by  one  the  pas- 
sengers left  us  until  our  arrival  at  Luino, 
on  Lake  Maggiore,  where  we  made  a  close 
connection  with  the  steamboat.  Looking 
over  the  rail  of  the  steamer,  we  could  see 
the  bottom  of  the  lake  through  the  clear, 
deep,  blue  water,  and  as  the  paddles 
turned,  white  foam  mingled  with  tur- 
quoise colours  followed  in  our  wake. 
There  is  a  sense  of  repose,  after  the  over- 
crowded train,  that  is  delightful.  In  the 
distance  the  shore  is  fringed  with  the 
white  hotels  of  Intra,  Baveno,  and  Stresa, 
while  on  the  mountain  side  are  villages, 
clustering  around  the  church  and  its 
tower,  isolated  peasants'  houses,  and  now 
and  then  a  monastic  building,  all  glowing 
in  the  declining  sunlight. 

I  never  visit  the  Italian  lakes  without 

thinking  of  our  drop  curtains  in  the  days 

of  my  youth  at  the  Philadelphia  Academy 

of  Music  and  the  Walnut  Street  Theatre! ; 

99 


until  I  saw  Lake  Como  I  thought  they 
were  purely  fancy  sketches. 

On  our  arrival  at  the  empty  hotel  at 
Pallanza  we  lost  no  time  in  making  ar- 
rangements for  a  bath  in  the  lake.  I  was 
familiar  with  the  details,  having  gone 
through  the  same  experience  some  years 
before:  a  little  bathhouse,  with  steps  that 
lead  down  to  the  water,  clear  as  crystal, 
with  a  somewhat  slimy  bottom,  and,  what 
is  still  worse,  when  you  get  out  into  the 
lake,  a  number  of  slimy  rocks.  On  com- 
ing out,  my  son  found  his  foot  bleeding. 
I  hurried  up  to  the  hotel,  and  brought 
down  some  court-plaster,  and  did  my  best 
to  close  the  cut.  Talking  the  matter  over 
at  the  dinner-table,  we  decided  to  send  for 
a  doctor,  both  of  us  knowing  what  a  seri- 
ous thing  for  mountain-climbing,  tennis, 
and  general  sight-seeing  this  little  cut 
might  become.  A  gray-haired  little  man, 
dressed  in  black,  and  carrying  a  cane, 
soon  came  upon  the  scene,  and  relieved 
100 


our  minds  by  telling  us  that  in  two  or 
three  days  it  would  be  well.  He  seemed 
to  have  all  the  latest  appliances  in  the  way 
of  antiseptic  cotton,  etc.,  and  as  he  ban- 
daged the  wound  we  had  much  entertain- 
ing conversation  regarding  the  past  and 
future  of  Italy.  He  had  been  one  of  the 
Carbonari;  had  fought  under  Garibaldi, 
and  was  full  of  fervour  for  his  country. 
When  I  asked  him  his  fee,  he  said,  "What 
you  please."  I  think  he  passed  out  of  the 
hotel  well  pleased  with  the  gold  he  had  re- 
ceived from  us,  which  was  as  well  spent  as 
any  money  we  parted  with  during  our 
travels. 

Sunday,  July  27th. 

Seated  in  a  comfortable  landau,  with  a 
good  pair  of  horses,  we  are  off  for  Grav- 
ellona,  a  very  pleasant  two  hours'  drive. 
From  there  we  took  the  train  for  Domo 
d'Ossola,  having  telegraphed  from  the 
hotel  at  Pallanza  to  have  a  carriage  meet 
101 


us.  We  found  a  pretty  seedy  pair  of 
horses,  and  saw  that  we  must  reconcile 
ourselves  to  cross  the  Simplon  Pass  in 
what  golfers  would  call  "  Class  B."  The 
tunnel  work  is  being  actively  prosecuted, 
and  for  the  first  four  or  five  hours 
we  might  have  been  on  the  line  of 
construction  of  a  new  railroad  in  the 
Rocky  Mountains,  with  the  teams  mov- 
ing to  and  fro,  and  the  wooden  shanties 
newly  erected  for  the  workingmen,  who 
were,  of  course,  very  much  of  the  same 
order  as  we  employ  at  home,  it  could 
hardly  be  said  to  be  seeing  Switzerland  at 
its  best.  We  finally  left  the  tunnel  and 
came  into  wild  mountain  passes  as  even- 
ing came  on,  lonely,  and  at  times  sublime ; 
we  dined  at  the  hotel  in  the  village  of 
Simplon,  an  old-fashioned  hostelry  where 
I  had  some  conversation  with  two  English 
maiden  ladies  in  the  dining-room.  They 
were  of  a  "  certain  age,"  handsomely  at- 
tired in  frocks  of  blue  silk,  and  were 
102 


evidently  much  pleased  to  find  them- 
selves in  such  a  remote  part  of  Switzer- 
land. Seeking  to  do  my  part  in  fairly 
dividing  the  conversation  among  the 
three  of  us,  looking  from  one  to  the  other, 
I  realised  their  tender  regard  for  each 
other.  As  is  usual  in  such  cases,  one 
of  them  seemed  to  be  the  leading  mind, 
without,  however,  diminishing  the  attrac- 
tions of  her  friend.  I  pleased  myself  with 
the  thought  that  our  conversation  was  to 
them  the  episode  of  the  evening. 

They  might  have  been  the  "  two  ladies 
of  Llangollen,"  full  of  kindness  and  at 
peace  with  all  the  world. 

It  was  growing  dark  as  we  pushed  on 
to  the  summit,  some  two  hours  off,  pass- 
ing the  gloomy  hospice  where  I  lunched 
badly  on  a  bicycle  tour  some  years  ago. 
Having  taken  on  another  horse  at  the  vil- 
lage of  Simplon,  we  made  great  time  down 
the  mountain  side,  through  the  wide  tun- 
nels built  to  avoid  avalanches,  around 

103 


sharp  curves,  every  now  and  then  a  flash 
of  lightning  illuminating  momentarily  the 
wild  scene  around  us. 

To  cross  the  Simplon  had  been  a  desire 
of  mine  for  many  years.  It  was  doubly 
associated  in  my  mind  with  Napoleon :  In 
my  childhood  days  I  possessed  a  plaster 
of  Paris  plaque  of  Napoleon  on  horse- 
back, a  high  wind  blowing  his  cloak  into 
graceful  folds,  his  horse  rearing,  and  the 
"  Little  Corporal,"  in  his  three-cornered 
cocked  hat,  his  face  turned  toward  you, 
seated  as  calmly  as  in  a  rocking-chair.  It 
was  one  of  my  treasures.  I  think  I 
tried  to  galvanise  it  with  copper.  It  was 
called  "  Napoleon  Crossing  the  Alps." 
It  gave  me  a  great  desire  to  cross  the  Sim- 
plon, not,  however,  in  the  same  manner. 

Noting  in  my  Baedeker  that  Berisal, 
three  hours  from  Brieg,  was  starred,  I 
determined  to  pass  the  night  there,  having 
engaged  a  landau  for  the  journey.  It 
was  not  far  from  the  dinner  hour  when 

104 


I  arrived,  and  I  soon  found  myself  seated 
at  the  table  d'hote,  an  English  clergyman 
on  my  right,  a  flowing  conversationalist, 
and  a  spinster  of  the  same  nationality 
on  my  left,  a  liberal  supply  of  their  coun- 
trywomen of  various  ages  scattered  along 
the  table,  with  here  and  there  a  man.  The 
scene  is  not  difficult  to  imagine :  the  women 
for  the  most  part  plainly  dressed,  angu- 
lar in  figure,  with  countenances  expressive 
of  pleasurable  contentment,  revealing  con- 
spicuous dental  endowments  as  they  smiled 
at  trifles — types  well  known  to  the  Con- 
tinental tourist. 

A  sweet  young  girl,  of  about  seventeen, 
standing  behind  us,  seemed  anxious  to  be 
of  service  as  she  passed  from  one  to  the 
other,  asking  if  we  had  all  we  wanted. 
Her  graceful  ways  were  in  strong  con- 
trast to  those  of  the  English  guests,  and  as 
she  approached  me  I  enjoyed  the  feeling 
that  one  of  my  own  kind  was  about  to  smile 
on  me.  "  Can  I  do  anything  for  you?  " 

105 


she  said.  "  Will  you  order  me  a  bottle 
of  wine?"  I  answered.  "What  wine 
would  you  like?  "  "  Oh,  any  kind  that 
you  please."  I  was  thinking,  for  the  mo- 
ment, more  of  her  than  of  the  wine. 
"  I  cannot  do  that.  You  must  make  your 
own  choice,"  she  said  gaily,  as  she  turned 
and  directed  a  waitress  to  hand  me  a  wine- 
card. 

After  dinner  I  walked  out  to  enjoy  the 
view  in  its  solemn  beauty  between  sunset 
and  dark. 

I  found  myself  beside  a  delicate  and  re- 
fined young  woman,  attired  for  travel; 
the  sympathetic  sweetness  of  her  counte- 
nance encouraged  me  to  speak.  She  was 
awaiting  the  diligence,  being  on  her  way 
to  Zermatt  to  attend  the  funeral  of  Mon- 
sieur Siler.  We  were  at  once  in  earnest 
conversation;  she  told  me  how  much  Siler 
had  done  for  that  part  of  the  world,  in- 
deed for  all  southern  Switzerland,  build- 
ing the  railroad  to  Zermatt,  devoting  his 
106 


life  to  the  development  of  the  country, 
and  how  poorly  the  peasants  had  repaid 
him,  doing  all  in  their  power  to  thwart 
his  good  works,  and  annoying  him  in 
petty  ways.  "  They  could  not  live  with- 
out us,"  she  said,  "  and  yet  they  treat  us 
as  if  we  were  their  enemies." 

Her  voice  was  low  and  musical,  and  the 
slight  accent  (we  spoke  in  English)  was 
most  agreeable  to  hear.  I  think  it  could 
not  have  been  much  more  than  ten  min- 
utes that  we  talked  together,  when  the 
diligence  arrived.  As  I  watched  her  de- 
parture, receiving  a  gracious  bow  from 
her  as  she  took  her  seat,  which  I  returned 
with  the  hope  that  mine  might  show  how 
highly  I  appreciated  having  made  her  ac- 
quaintance, I  knew  not  that  we  were  mak- 
ing our  adieux  forever  in  this  world. 
Once  again,  two  years  later,  I  saw  her  in 
the  distance,  as  she  sat  sunning  herself, 
in  a  high  hooded  wicker  chair,  in  the  pri- 
vate garden;  when  she  saw  I  was  notic- 
107 


ing  her,  she  turned  her  chair,  and  hid  her- 
self from  me.  She  knew  she  could  not 
live  much  longer,  her  thoughts  were 
turned  heavenward,  she  did  not  wish 
them  disturbed  by  a  worldling.  During 
our  lives  we  had  been  but  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  in  each  other's  society.  I  have  never 
forgotten  her.  She  was  Aline's  elder 
sister. 

Returning  through  the  hallway,  I  saw 
Aline  writing  at  a  table  in  the  dining- 
room,  a  very  old  man  sitting  beside  her, 
his  hands  clasping  a  small  jug  filled  with 
hot  water,  in  order  that  he  might  warm 
them.  Something  told  me  that  in  join- 
ing them  I  would  not  be  a  discordant  note. 
I  was  pleased  to  find  myself  at  once  in 
harmony.  We  teased  Aline  when  she 
would  make  a  little  blot,  whispering  to 
each  other,  "  How  neatly  she  writes!  "  or 
seeing  her  grasp  the  penholder  with  en- 
ergy, pressing  her  delicate  forefinger  out 
of  shape,  we  would  add,  "  How  grace- 

108 


fully  she  uses  her  hands!  "  until  all  three 
were  laughing  together,  the  old  man  and 
myself  delighted  to  think  that  we  could 
please  so  attractive  a  young  girl.  The  old 
gentleman  must  have  been  in  the  eighties. 
He  wore  a  little  silk  cap,  and  was  the  old- 
fashioned  Frenchman,  not  the  beau;  the 
shrewd  man  of  the  world,  with  a  kindly 
feeling  toward  all  around  him.  Aline 
told  me  he  had  been  coming  to  Berisal 
for  years,  and  that  when  any  of  them  had 
occasion  to  go  to  Paris,  they  stayed  with 
him  in  his  apartment;  that  his  family  were 
all  dead,  and  that  he  lived  quite  alone. 

After  a  little,  he  bade  us  good  night, 
and  took  his  way  wearily  to  his  room,  care- 
fully holding  the  little  jug  as  he  faded 
away. 

We  had  been  alone  but  a  few  moments 
when  Aline  changed  the  conversation  from 
French  to  English,  saying,  "  I  like  your 
language.  Do  you  know,  my  favourite 
book  is  the  '  Ingoldsby  Legends ' ;  I 
109 


have  two  copies — a  large  one  and  a  small 
one.  I  usually  carry  the  small  one  in  my 
pocket.  May  I  go  to  my  room  and  get 
it?  "  "I  wish  you  would,"  I  answered. 

Shall  I  ever  forget  that  evening  in  the 
cool,  quiet  atmosphere  of  the  Alps !  It  was 
the  meeting  of  May  and  October,  each  in 
our  own  way  delighted  with  the  charm  of 
flirtation.  I  recall  how  my  arm  half  en- 
circled her,  barely  touching,  perhaps 
grazing  at  times,  her  dainty  waist  and 
shoulders,  her  wavy  brown  hair  almost 
meeting  my  whitening  locks,  as  we  pored 
over  her  favourite  volume,  reading  aloud 
by  turns ;  and  how  a  tall,  ungainly  English 
girl  came  upon  us,  in  pretence  of  seeking 
a  glass  from  the  sideboard,  in  reality  an 
emissary  sent  down  from  above  by  a  gos- 
sipy party  of  her  countrywomen  to  report 
what  was  going  on;  and  how  my  little 
friend  did  not  move  an  inch,  whispering  to 
me  in  a  half -audible  tone,  "  How  I  hate 
them,  those  horrid  English  girls!";  and 
no 


how,  as  it  neared  eleven,  the  hall  porter, 
anxious  to  break  up  our  sweet  hours,  be- 
gan clanking  his  heavy  boots  as  he  walked 
up  and  down  the  hall,  making  me  uneasy ; 
and  how  she  did  not  want  me  to  go,  and 
how  angry  she  made  believe  to  be  when  I 
said  it  was  really  time,  and  how  she  looked 
me  with  flashing  eyes  half  defiantly  in  the 
face  with  an  expression  that  said,  "  Can't 
you  let  me  judge  of  when  we  should 
part?"  (she  was  only  seventeen) ;  and  how 
the  next  morning  she  came  down  arrayed 
in  a  nicely  fitting,  finely  striped  gray  and 
white  silk,  a  light  blue  sash  around  her 
waist,  and  a  ribbon  to  match,  looking  so 
sweet  and  pretty;  and  how,  as  we  began 
our  adieux,  in  a  sad  way  she  said,  "  Oh, 
I  know  how  it  will  be.  When  you  come 
to  know  my  sister  you  will  leave  me  for 
her.  It  is  always  so.  Everybody  likes 
her  more  than  they  do  me,"  and  nothing 
that  I  could  say  seemed  to  comfort  her. 
Her  image  has  often  come  to  my  mind, 
ill 


at  times  almost  as  vividly  as  when,  after 
leaving  her,  I  wended  my  way  alone  over 
the  Simplon. 

Aline  (what  an  attractive  name!)  wras 
an  accomplished  linguist,  speaking  Ger- 
man, French,  Italian  and  English,  all  with 
great  purity.  Her  uncle,  her  mother's 
brother,  was  Father-General  of  the  Je- 
suits, that  wonderful  organisation  where 
aristocracy  and  democracy  combine  in- 
geniously to  strengthen  each  other,  where 
prince  and  commoner,  seeking  to  master 
self,  rival  each  other  in  humble  obedience, 
only  to  rise  in  the  strength  of  intellectual 
vigour,  exalting  the  mystery  within  us 
without  thought  of  future  reward,  leaving 
that  to  the  "  Infinite,"  obedient  to  rules 
framed  long  years  ago  with  subtle  know- 
ledge of  what  man  is  and  what  he  may  be, 
never  resting,  never  satisfied,  eluding  the 
grasp  of  kings  and  emperors  whose  very 
thrones  have  tottered  at  the  secret  edicts  of 
the  order.  What  may  it  mean  to  be 
112 


Father-General  of  the  Jesuits?  Who  will 
answer  that  question? 

Aline  came  honestly  by  her  powers  of 
fascination ;  it  needed  but  a  few  drops  of 
the  blood  that  flowed  in  her  uncle's  veins 
to  make  her  a  power  in  her  own  little 
world  and  gently  to  lead  whom  she  chose 
into  pleasing  paths.  She  amused  me  by 
telling  me  how  their  English  guests  had 
once  asked  to  hold  their  Sunday  services  in 
the  little  chapel  that  adjoined  their  house. 
"Did  you  ever  hear  anything  equal  to  it?" 
she  said.  "Those  heretics,  to  dare  to  ask 
the  use  of  our  dear  little  chapel!  They 
got  a  very  short  answer  from  my  mother." 

Since  those  days  she  has  been  happily 
married,  and  we  have  interchanged  several 
letters.  I  was  much  disappointed  to  find 
that  she  was  still  in  England  with  her  hus- 
band, and  was  not  expected  for  some 
weeks,  and  that  her  health  was  poor.  At 
her  mother's  urgent  solicitation  I  wrote 
her  then  and  there,  telling  her  if  she  were 

113 


my  child  I  would  bring  her  back  to  the 
mountain  air,  which  would  do  her  more 
good  than  the  best  doctors  of  London.  I 
was  very  much  pleased  lately  to  receive  a 
letter  from  her,  telling  me  how  much  bet- 
ter she  was,  and  how  disappointed  at  not 
being  at  Berisal  while  I  was  there. 

To  soothe  my  disappointment,  the  next 
morning  we  departed  early,  arriving  at 
Visp  in  time  for  lunch  before  taking  the 
train  for  Zermatt.  I  was  much  pleased 
at  my  son's  economical  views:  having 
some  sandwiches  with  us,  he  determined 
to  save  the  expense  of  a  poor  lunch,  and 
be  satisfied  with  them,  leaving  me  to  sam- 
ple the  watery  soup  and  tasteless  chicken. 
I  think  his  hunger  was  quite  as  satisfac- 
torily appeased  as  mine. 

That  evening  found  us  comfortably  in- 
stalled at  the  Hotel  Mont  Cervin  at  Zer- 
matt. It  was  the  height  of  the  season. 
The  little  narrow  street  was  crowded  with 
all  nationalities — Germans  predominat- 

114 


ing.  A  row  of  hardy-looking  guides, 
seated  against  an  iron  railing  or  mingling 
with  the  crowd,  added  to  the  picturesque 
effect.  After  a  table  d'hote  dinner,  a 
game  of  billiards  and  a  glass  of  good  beer, 
we  retired,  looking  forward  to  a  trip  to  the 
Corner  Grat  by  the  early  morning  train. 

July  29th. 

A  cloudless  day.  That  magnificent 
scene:  the  Matterhorn  on  the  right,  the 
Breithorn,  Lyskamm  group,  and,  last,  the 
finest  of  the  snow  mountains,  Monte 
Rosa,  were  all  spread  before  us,  their  out- 
lines sharply  marked  against  the  deep 
blue  sky. 

As  we  got  out  of  the  train,  two  guides 
appeared,  the  larger  one  asking  in  pretty 
good  English  if  we  wanted  a  guide.  On 
our  accepting  his  proposition,  he  handed 
over  to  us  the  smaller  one,  Alois.  Alois 
knew  probably  twenty — perhaps  I  exag- 

115 


gerate — of  the  most  important  English 
words,  to  cover  the  immediate  needs  of  his 
companions.  We  decided  to  walk  to  the 
Monte  Rosa  hiitte,  which  took  us  across 
the  great  glacier.  We  were  pleased  to 
make  a  few  leaps  across  narrow  crevasses 
with  our  newly  purchased  alpenstocks, 
the  gurgling  water  playing  beneath  us 
around  the  bright  green  ice;  I  was  even 
accused  of  being  agile  beyond  my  years. 
We  arrived  at  the  hiitte  about  noon, 
finding  there  a  couple  who  had  preceded 
us,  accompanied  by  their  little  child.  The 
wife  bore  the  marks  of  a  Jewess,  and  I  am 
not  quite  sure  that  the  husband  was  not 
also  descended  from  that  ancient  race.  We 
soon  fell  into  conversation,  and  I  was  led 
to  describe  matzoon,my  favourite  form  of 
midday  nourishment.  When  about  half 
way  through  my  story,  the  man  to  whom 
I  was  addressing  myself  lost  interest  and 
began  to  talk  to  the  guides.  His  wife, 
who  had  more  consideration  for  my  feel- 
116 


ings,  took  up  the  listener's  thread,  and 
enabled  me  to  go  on,  but,  needless  to  say, 
I  shortened  the  story.  My  son  was  enjoy- 
ing himself  at  my  expense,  a  not  unpleas- 
ant sensation  to  me,  as  it  evinced  that 
sympathetic  knowledge  of  my  feelings 
which  has  so  much  to  do  with  the  pleasur- 
able companionship  of  travel.  When  I 
met  this  gentleman  the  following  day  at 
Zermatt,  where  he  accompanied  his  little 
daughter,  I  was  less  inclined  to  encourage 
his  advances  than  I  would  have  been  if 
he  had  treated  me  with  more  considera- 
tion. 

They  had  a  very  cheeky,  airy  guide, 
who,  the  lady  informed  me,  told  her  that 
whenever  any  people  wanted  to  ascend 
Monte  Rosa,  however  sure  he  was  that  they 
were  not  strong  enough  to  accomplish  it, 
he  never  declined,  as  he  got  his  pay  under 
any  circumstances.  He  put  on  more  airs 
than  any  Swiss  guide  I  had  ever  seen, 
smoking  cigarettes  as  he  told  his  experi- 
117 


ences.  He  made  the  sensible  remark  of 
absinthe,  "  Qa  coupe  les  jambes." 

Returning  from  the  hiitte  to  the  Riffle 
Berg  hotel,  where  we  arrived  about  four 
in  the  afternoon,  we  were  preceded  by  the 
man,  his  wife  and  little  girl,  and  were 
somewhat  surprised  to  see  the  man  walk 
rapidly  away  from  his  wife  and  child  and 
guide,  along  the  precipitous  path,  which, 
although  without  danger,  is  a  very  un- 
pleasant place  to  those  whose  heads  are  not 
steady.  He  told  us  at  the  Riffle  Berg 
hotel  that  he  could  not  stand  having  his 
family  near  him,  with  the  precipice  below. 
I  understood  his  nervous  feeling,  al- 
though I  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  tell 
him  so,  as  it  seemed  to  me  weak-minded 
in  him  to  leave  his  wife  and  daughter. 

We  decided  to  walk  down  from  the 
Riffle  Berg  to  Zermatt,  where  we  arrived 
between  six  and  seven,  my  muscles  very 
sore  from  the  continual  descent.  The 
evening  was  passed  enjoying  billiards, 
beer  'and  music. 

118 


Jimmy  was  so  fresh,  and  so  much  de- 
lighted with  his  first  Alpine  experience, 
that  he  arranged  with  Alois  to  ascend  the 
Breithorn.  The  afternoon  of  the  follow- 
ing day  they  set  out  for  the  hiitte.  As  I 
was  not  in  their  company,  I  can  only  re- 
port that  on  my  son's  return  I  was  quite 
satisfied  that  the  journey  would  have  been 
too  much  for  me.  If  the  weather  had  not 
broken,  I  think  Jimmy  would  have  been 
climbing  the  mountains  up  to  the  last 
day  we  had  to  spare  at  Zermatt. 

July  31st. 

I  took  the  early  train  for  the  Corner 
Grat,  hoping  with  the  use  of  telescopes  to 
get  a  glimpse  of  Jimmy  and  his  guide  on 
the  Breithorn.  The  weather  was  still  fine, 
but  the  wind  had  changed,  and  clouds 
were  appearing  around  the  Matterhorn. 

The  Corner  Grat  hotel  is  a  rude,  cheap 
building  with  something  of  an  esplanade 
in  front,  on  which  there  are  good  tele- 


scopes.  You  put  ten  pfennigs  in  the 
slot,  and  for  the  space  of  about  two  min- 
utes get  a  fine  view,  when  the  disk  closes 
over  and  you  are  left  in  darkness  until  you 
deposit  another  coin.  I  had  a  splendid 
view  of  a  party  on  the  Breithorn,  which 
included  a  lady,  deceiving  myself  with 
the  illusion,  as  I  learned  later  in  the  after- 
noon from  my  son,  that  I  was  looking  at 
him  and  his  friends.  It  was  a  beautiful 
sight  on  that  smooth,  white  snow-bank  to 
watch  them  moving  about,  sometimes  one 
or  more  sitting  down.  I  saw  also  some 
five  or  six  on  the  Matterhorn ;  high  up  on 
the  peak,  they  looked  a  little  like  flies 
clinging  to  a  perpendicular  side.  There 
was  also  a  party  on  the  Lyskamm,  the 
members  of  which  were  evidently  contend- 
ing with  more  or  less  wind,  as  they  plodded 
through  the  snow,  every  now  and  then 
taking  a  rest.  On  Monte  Rosa  there  was 
a  party  going  up,  and  a  party  coming 
down.  Their  relative  progress  was  very 
120 


striking.  Altogether  it  was  a  most  charm- 
ing morning. 

I  met  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bayard  Cutting, 
who  had  come  up  on  a  later  train,  and, 
like  myself,  were  delighted  with  the  scene. 

On  my  return  by  the  cog  railroad,  a 
French  couple  sat  near  me,  the  lady  an- 
nouncing, in  plain  hearing  of  many  of  us, 
that  she  was  suffering  from  the  cold,  that 
her  underclothing  was  too  light  for  the 
altitude.  Her  companion,  more  particu- 
larly after  this  remark,  seemed  socially 
uncomfortable,  if  not  unhappy.  Was  it 
a  "  mariage  de  convenance  "!  The  bride, 
if  such  she  was,  was  young  and  good- 
looking,  and  I  could  not  but  admire  her 
self-reliance  and  courage  under  the  ad- 
verse criticism  that  seemed  to  surround 
her. 

I  had  not  been  long  in  my  room  at  the 

Mont   Cervin   before   Jimmy   appeared. 

It  needed  but  one  look  to  see  that  he  had 

been  through  quite  an  experience.     The 

121 


guide  had  given  him  a  stimulant  he  car- 
ried with  him,  which,  with  perhaps  the 
rarefied  air,  had  given  him  a  headache. 
He  was,  however,  full  of  enthusiasm  over 
the  pleasures  of  mountain-climbing,  and 
of  all  his  experiences  in  Europe,  this,  I 
am  sure,  stands  out  as  the  most  interesting, 
and  one  that  he  hopes  to  repeat. 

That  evening  the  weather  changed. 
The  mountains  were  more  or  less  hidden 
by  clouds,  and  we  decided  to  leave  the 
next  morning,  which  we  did  in  a  storm  of 
rain.  One  of  my  last  acts  was  to  go  into 
the  beer-hall  to  present  ten  francs  to  a  tall 
Brunhilda,  who  had  one  of  the  most  re- 
markable heads  of  Titian  hair  that  I  have 
ever  seen.  I  had  asked  her  playfully  the 
evening  before  if  she  would  answer  me  a 
question  if  I  gave  her  five  francs.  She 
smiled  and  said:  "  That  would  depend  on 
what  it  was."  I  risked  saying  to  her,  "  I 
would  like  to  know  how  near  your  hair 
comes  to  touching  the  floor."  I  thought 

122 


afterward  that  perhaps  I  had  been  indis- 
creet, hence  the  manner  of  my  adieu.  She 
left  the  impression  on  my  mind  that  she 
had  been  flattered  by  the  interest  I  had 
taken  in  her,  and  all  my  thought  of  having 
wounded  her  feelings  was  entirely  re- 
moved by  her  cordial  adieu. 

In  the  train  we  met  Messrs.  Bannard 
and  Dixon,  and  soon  formed  a  substantial 
travelling  alliance.  We  all  determined  to 
stop  at  Vevey,  at  the  Hotel  Monet,  where 
we  arrived  about  five  o'clock.  Jimmy  and 
I  immediately  hired  a  boat,  and  rowed  to 
the  bathing  establishment,  some  half  hour 
by  water  from  the  Monet.  The  effects  of 
the  water  were  delightful.  We  returned 
by  tram,  sending  our  boat  back  at  the  ex- 
pense of  two  francs.  A  quiet  dinner  at 
that  most  excellent  of  tables,  a  game  of 
billiards,  and  a  short  stroll  in  the  town 
finished  the  evening. 

We  had  hoped  for  letters  at  Zermatt 
from  Emilie,  telling  us  where  we  would 

123 


find  her,  as  we  knew  she  was  probably  in 
Switzerland.  The  letters  never  came 
until  after  we  left;  she  was  at  Ville 
Neuve,  only  a  half -hour  away. 

I  found  Vevey  had  lost  none  of  its 
charm. 

It  was  during  a  ten-day  trip  through 
Switzerland  (my  first  visit),  with  a  party 
ably  led  by  our  good  friend  John  Sloane, 
that  I  received  my  first  impressions  of 
the  beauty  of  Lake  Geneva.  I  was  so 
charmed  that  a  few  weeks  later  I  came 
all  the  way  from  England,  alone,  that  I 
might  renew  the  delight. 

Childe  Harold  is  always  with  me  at 
Vevey.  As  I  watch  in  the  distance  the  la- 
teen sails  of  the  stone-barges  slowly  ap- 
proaching and  recall  the  lines — 

"  This  quiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 
To  waft  me  from  distraction  " — 

I  am  soothed  and  lulled  into  a  happy  state 
that  asks  for  the  moment  no  companion 
for  its  perfect  enjoyment. 


In  fine  contrast  is  the  description  of  a 
thunder-storm. 

" Far  along, 

From  peak  to  peak  the  rattling  crags  among 
Leaps  the  live  thunder!    Not  from  one  lone  cloud, 
But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a  tongue, 
And  Jura  answers,  through  her  misty  shroud, 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her  aloud! 

And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the  earth! 

And  now  again  'tis  black, — and  now,  the  glee 

Of  the  loud  hills  shakes  with  its  mountain-mirth, 

As  if  they  did  rejoice  o'er  a  young  earthquake's  birth." 


Again  and  again,  as  I  have  looked 
across  the  lake,  I  have  repeated  to  my- 
self: 

"  Here  the  Rhone 

Hath  spread  herself  a  couch,  the  Alps  have  rear'd  a 
throne." 

Our  visit  was  all  too  short  for  me.  Af- 
ter Zermatt,  it  must  have  seemed  tame  to 
Jimmy. 

Taking  the  one-o'clock  train  on  Au- 
gust second,  direct  for  Paris,  we  arrived 
there  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening.  Just 

125 


before  coming  to  Dijon  we  were  informed 
that  an  accident  had  happened  to  the  din- 
ing-car, but  that  we  could  get  baskets,  or 
rather  boxes,  containing  dinner,  at  Dijon, 
and  take  our  meal  on  the  train.  I  had  a 
lively  recollection  of  certain  very  good  red 
wine  that  I  had  had  in  that  part  of  the 
world  some  twenty  years  before,  so  I 
bought  two  bottles  of  light  Burgundy  at 
the  station.  Our  only  regret  was  that  it 
had  not  been  three.  The  genial  effect  of 
France's  generous  wine  made  the  time 
pass  most  pleasantly.  As  we  approached 
Paris  a  thunder-storm  was  raging,  the 
dark  cloud  hanging  over  the  city  recalling 
the  pictures  of  Michel.  My  enjoyment  of 
the  scenes  of  wood,  forest,  plain,  and  sea, 
as  I  have  travelled  through  France,  has 
been  much  enhanced  by  my  studies  of  the 
works  of  French  landscape  artists.  They 
teach  one  how  to  look  at  nature. 

We  found  every  comfort  a  man  can 
ask  awaiting  us  at  the  Ritz. 
126 


During  the  ten  days  previous  to  our 
sailing  we  had  many  pleasant  experiences 
which  kept  us  in  continued  delightful 
sympathy. 

We  dined  at  the  Maison  Doree.  As  I 
sat  opposite  my  companionable  son,  look- 
ing forward  to  the  pleasure  of  a  good  din- 
ner in  good  society,  I  could  not  but  think 
of  how  many  years  ago  it  was,  and  what 
a  short  time  it  seemed,  since  I  had  sat  there 
with  Dillwyn  Parrish,  long  before  I  had 
thought  of  marriage,  and  how,  notwith- 
standing the  many  events,  sad  and  joyful, 
that  had  checkered  my  life  since  those 
days,  how  natural  it  seemed,  to  be  just 
where  I  was,  and  how  delightful  to  think 
that  I  could  have  brought  my  son  to  enjoy 
with  me  the  good  things  and  kind  consid- 
eration that  I  have  always  received  in  this 
most  excellent  of  restaurants.  Gustave, 
the  active  but  sometimes  over-zealous  ma- 
jordomo  of  the  back  room,  had  left  to 
take  charge  of  a  similar  establishment  at 
127 


Marseilles.  Louis  still  presides  over  the 
front  room. 

I  should  like  to  recount  what  seem  to 
me  the  requirements  for  a  perfect  waiter. 
He  should  be  a  gentleman  at  heart,  think- 
ing of  others,  not  of  himself;  his  percep- 
tions should  be  keen;  he  should  never  tell 
an  untruth;  he  should  veil  disappoint- 
ments in  attractive  language;  he  should 
be  slender  (there  are  excellent  waiters 
who  are  stout:  I  am  speaking  of  perfec- 
tion) ;  he  should  not  approach  too  near 
to  you;  he  should  never  desire  to  overhear 
your  conversation  (he  will  learn  much 
more  by  seeming  to  keep  out  of  the  way, 
thus  encouraging  you  to  speak  more 
freely  among  yourselves) ;  he  should  move 
quietly,  surely ;  his  boots  should  not  creak, 
and  his  attire  should  be  spotless.  All 
these  qualities  Louis  possesses. 

The  question  may  be  asked,  Why  should 
a  man  of  such  superior  nature  be  satisfied 
with  the  position  of  waiter?  The  answer 

128 


is  plain.  His  ambition  goes  no  farther 
than  to  excel  in  the  role  in  which  he  finds 
himself.  The  constant  intercourse  with 
gentlemen  of  refinement  and  culture  gives 
him  a  certain  enjoyment  of  good  society 
that  he  could  obtain  in  no  other  manner. 
As  long  as  he  keeps  his  health,  he  is  sure 
of  an  income.  He  has  neither  the  courage 
nor  the  desire  to  embark  in  unknown 
seas.  He  has  more  or  less  before  his  mind 
the  failure  of  those  who  have  deserted 
good  places  in  the  hope  of  rising  in  the 
world.  In  a  word,  he  is  happy.  His  phi- 
losophy is  sound,  and  he  is  entitled  to  that 
consideration  that  men  receive  who  excel 
in  whatsoever  they  undertake  that  is  hon- 
ourable and  of  benefit  to  mankind.  My 
friend,  Edward  Tuck,  who  knows  Paris 
better  than  I  do,  albeit  he  may  deny  the 
soft  impeachment,  will,  I  think,  bear  me 
out  in  all  I  say  of  Louis. 

The  Maison  Doree  is  not  without  its 
tragedy.      William,    eleventh    Duke    of 
129 


Hamilton,  died  from  a  fall  on  the  stair- 
way au  premier.  I  have  heard  that,  as  he 
approached  it  to  descend,  with  unsure 
step,  the  maitre  d'hotel  offered  him  an 
arm,  which,  in  a  lordly  way,  he  declined, 
and  a  moment  afterward  slipped  and 
plunged  headlong.  There  is  another  story 
as  to  how  it  came  about.  We  will  pass 
that  by. 

Verdier  pere  passed  away  many  years 
ago.  He  it  was  who  brought  the  cuisine 
to  perfection.  I  have  heard  him  recount 
how  he  could  have  fish  on  the  table  six 
hours  after  it  had  left  the  sea.  His  sons 
have  not  inherited  his  qualities.  One  is 
in  California,  another  was  concerned  in  an 
unfortunate  dining-club  in  London,  and 
the  third,  the  responsible  man,  has  sold 
his  lease.  The  doors  through  which  thou- 
sands of  the  gayest  of  the  gay  have  passed 
to  and  fro  for  three  quarters  of  a  century 
are  now  closed  forever.  The  Maison 
Doree  was  a  link  between  the  palmy  days 

130 


of  the  Empire  and  the  present.  When  I 
first  knew  it,  it  was  famous  as  the  ren- 
dezvous of  viveurs,  the  very  centre  of  the 
pleasures  and  the  dissipations  of  the  table. 
The  boulevard  in  its  immediate  vicinity 
has  lost  much  of  its  brilliancy  by  the  cre- 
ation of  the  gloomy  building  of  the  Credit 
Lyonnais,  almost  immediately  opposite 
and  close  to  the  Cafe  Anglais,  which  still 
holds  its  own,  a  most  worthy  neighbour. 
Gay  Paris  is  moving  on  to  the  Champs 
Elysees,  where  Paillard  and  Laurent  at- 
tract the  beau  monde. 

One  is  always  sure  that  Paris  will  not 
go  backward  in  the  attractions  it  offers 
the  pleasure-seeker.  A  city  that  can  re- 
bound so  quickly  from  the  horrors  of  the 
Reign  of  Terror  and  the  devastation  of 
the  Commune  may  be  safely  trusted  for 
the  future. 

A  few  words  for  the  Cafe  Anglais :  One 
enters  on  the  level  of  the  boulevard, 
touches  his  hat  to  the  two  solemn  caissi- 

131 


eres,  and,  turning  to  the  left,  finds  himself 
at  once  in  the  large  salon  on  the  ground 
floor.  The  quality  and  size  of  the  table 
linen,  the  whiteness  of  the  silver,  the  soft 
carpet  and  dainty  tulle  curtains  impress 
you  with  the  feeling  that  you  are  in  excep- 
tional surroundings.  The  few  diners  that 
may  have  preceded  you  are  quite  in  ac- 
cord with  the  room:  an  elderly  father, 
with  his  daughter,  whom  he  would  hesitate 
to  take  to  the  Maison  Doree,  in  the  simpli- 
city of  her  costume  and  the  refinement  of 
her  countenance  recalling  to  you  the  beau- 
tiful lives  of  the  noble  women  of  France, 
as  we  know  them  through  the  memoirs  of 
Port  Royal;  a  small  party  of  well-bred 
English  people,  and  perhaps  an  American, 
anxious  to  appear  to  no  disadvantage  in 
comparison  with  the  standards  that  sur- 
round him.  You  are  at  once  of  his  mind. 
From  the  moment  that  your  coat  is  gently, 
one  might  say  affectionately,  removed  by 
the  maitre  d'hotel,  until  you  are  seated  at 

132 


your  table,  you  feel  the  danger  of  dis- 
turbing the  harmony  of  the  distinguished 
company  to  which  you  add  yourself  with 
the  hope  that  you  will  not  mar  the  effect. 

I  have  seen  Lord  Dudley,  with  his  long, 
wavy  hair,  and  his  handsome  wife  (cer- 
tainly, in  those  days,  one  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful women  in  the  world),  dining  in  the 
room  I  have  described,  with  evident  en- 
joyment in  each  other's  society,  the  same 
afternoon  having  seen  the  countess  driv- 
ing a  handsome  pair  in  her  victoria  in 
the  Bois,  her  lord  in  a  low  seat  by  her 
side,  making  one  of  the  choicest  of  the 
many  brilliant  sights  that  one  sees  in  the 
Bois  on  a  fine  afternoon,  both  of  them, 
I  think,  fully  aware  of  the  fact. 

A  word  of  comparison  between  Louis 
of  the  "  Maison  d'Or  "  (the  boulevardier 
loves  to  clip  the  gilded  word)  and  the 
maitre  d 'hot el  of  the  "  Anglais,"  whose 
name  escapes  me,  although  his  form  and 
kindly  look  are  before  me  as  vividly  as 

133 


of  yesterday.  We  will  call  him  Baptiste. 
He,  like  Louis,  is  slender,  attired  as  maitre 
in  spotless  garments,  moves  quietly  and 
surely,  is  oblivious  to  your  conversation, 
and  leaves  a  pleasant  impression,  whether 
he  approaches  to  receive  your  bidding  or 
departs  to  fulfil  it.  There  is  a  hectic  flush 
on  his  cheek.  You  fear  he  is  poitrinaire. 
His  faint,  languid  smile  and  soft  voice  do 
not  dispel  the  impression.  However,  as  I 
saw  no  change  in  an  acquaintance  of  some 
fifteen  years,  the  fear  must  be  groundless. 
I  know  not  his  origin,  but  think  he  must 
have  English  blood  in  his  veins,  sufficiently 
diluted  to  preserve  the  sympathetic  man- 
ner, more  or  less  the  gift  of  the  French, 
in  the  class  that  serve  our  personal 
wants. 

An  actor  at  the  "  Varietes,"  seeking  a 
waiter  on  which  to  model  himself  for  the 
role,  would  choose  Louis;  an  actor  of  the 
"  Francais,"  on  the  same  errand,  would  se- 
lect Baptiste;  Gustave,  to  whom  I  have 

134 


referred,  would  suit  the  "  Bouffes  Parisi- 


ennes." 


Hesitating,  as  I  have  often  done,  whe- 
ther to  dine  at  the  "  Maison  d'Or  "  or  the 
"  Anglais,"  I  can  truly  say,  that,  having 
made  my  choice  of  the  one,  I  never  re- 
gretted that  it  had  not  been  the  other. 
This  is  perhaps  the  highest  compliment  I 
can  pay  to  both. 

Dining  "  en  ville  "  on  one  or  two  occa- 
sions, my  son  was  thrown  upon  his  own  re- 
sources for  the  evening.  After  consult- 
ing "  Baedeker,"  he  informed  me  he  chose 
the  "  Cafe  de  la  Paix  "  to  dine.  I  was 
much  pleased,  when  he  suggested  later  on 
that  we  should  go  there,  to  find  that  he  had 
preserved  his  identity,  and  was  treated 
with  great  consideration  by  the  waiter 
who  had  formerly  looked  after  him,  and 
who,  treating  me  as  my  son's  guest,  gave 
me  the  pleasure  of  seeing  my  son  play  the 
role  of  host  with  ease,  and  order  the  din- 
ner, with  the  assistance  of  the  waiter,  much 

135 


as  if  it  were  quite  a  matter  of  course.  It 
was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  dined  with 
him. 

I  had  some  talk  with  Jimmy  about 
four-in-hand  lessons  as  a  means  of  enter- 
taining him  during  his  stay  in  Paris.  He 
informed  me  what  he  wanted  were  auto- 
mobile lessons,  so  having  passed  Sunday, 
August  third,  at  the  Golf  Club,  we  in- 
vestigated the  automobile  question  and 
obtained  a  most  satisfactory  instructor 
and  a  small  Panhard. 

THE  first  few  days  after  our  return  to 
Paris  were,  during  the  daytime,  devoted 
mostly  to  automobiling  by  my  son,  and  to 
golf  by  myself. 

The  "  Societe  de  Golf  de  Paris  "  has 
added  much  to  the  enjoyment  of  my  visits 
to  the  capital.  It  is  situated  within  about 
ten  minutes'  drive  from  the  station,  Ver- 
sailles-Chantier,  which  is  but  twenty  min- 
utes from  Mont  Parnasse,  by  express 
136 


train.  There  are  some  one  hundred  acres 
sloping  beautifully  from  the  plateau  on 
which  the  club-house  is  situated.  The 
property  was  formerly  a  haras,  known  as 
La  Boulie. 

The  Bois  des  Celestins  and  the  Bois  des 
Mets  lie  close  to  the  easterly  border;  the 
Bois  des  Gonards  with  its  grand  old  oaks 
lines  the  western  boundary.  Beautiful 
country-places  are  to  be  seen,  looking 
southward,  while  to  the  north,  glimpses 
of  the  small  houses,  with  their  red-tiled 
roofs,  that  are  scattered  over  a  large  por- 
tion of  the  environs  of  Paris,  peep  out 
from  their  wooded  surroundings.  With 
the  exception  of  the  tall  chimney  of  the 
gas-works,  there  is  nothing  to  mar  the 
scene  in  whatever  direction  you  look.  A 
few  fine  old  apple-trees  add  to  the  beauty 
of  one  of  the  slopes,  far  enough  apart  to 
make  only  a  reasonable  obstruction  to  the 
course. 

Let  us  make  the  round  of  the  links 
137 


with  a  good  player.  A  little  over  a  hun- 
dred yards  from  the  first  tee  is  a  double 
wire  fence  inclosing  a  narrow  lane.  Our 
supposed  player  drives  his  ball  some 
thirty  or  forty  yards  beyond  the  fence. 
(I  have  heard  many  a  golf -ball  rattle 
against  the  wire,  and  exclamations,  not 
meant  for  polite  ears,  come  almost  like 
an  echo  from  the  disappointed  driver.) 
Passing  through  the  gates,  we  find  our- 
selves on  the  brow  of  a  hill,  the  first  hole 
lying  some  hundred  or  more  yards  below 
us  in  a  sloping  hollow.  Playing  the  ball 
with  a  midiron  or  mashie  to  a  spot  some 
thirty  or  forty  feet  to  the  right  of  the 
hole,  we  watch  with  interest  to  see  where 
it  will  stop.  The  distance  is  not  too  great 
to  permit  a  skilful  approach  and  a  short 
put,  thus  making  the  hole  in  four. 

We  now  walk  a  short  distance  to  the 
second  tee,  from  where  we  drive  with  an 
iron  on  to  a  plateau  above  us,  which  we 
cannot  see,  some  one  hundred  and  twenty- 

138 


five  yards  away.  An  ugly  bunker  to  the 
right  makes  it  important  that  our  drive 
should  be  straight,  while  the  forest  beyond 
makes  it  equally  important  that  we  should 
not  overdo  it.  Clambering  the  hill,  we 
find  the  ball  on  the  smooth  green.  An  ap- 
proach put  lands  us  near  the  hole,  and  it 
is  made  in  three. 

The  third  tee  is  but  a  few  yards  off. 
From  there  we  drive  over  a  beautiful  ex- 
panse of  fair  green  toward  the  hole  some 
three  hundred  yards  and  more  away.  We 
must  beware  of  the  woods  on  the  right, 
where  many  a  ball  lies  hidden  from  the 
most  expert  of  caddies,  in  the  ferns  and 
shrubs  that  line  the  edge  of  the  forest. 
The  second  stroke  lands  us  close  to  the 
green.  The  hole  is  made  in  four. 

We  are  now  at  the  southern  boundary 
of  the  course,  and,  at  a  short,  safe  distance, 
are  on  the  fourth  tee,  driving  back  in  the 
direction  from  which  we  came.  An  ugly 
hill,  with  more  or  less  gravel  exposed, 
139 


faces  us  over  one  hundred  and  fifty  yards 
off.  We  keep  to  the  right  of  the  hill  and 
find  a  good  fair  green  over  which  to  carry 
our  ball  with  a  long  brassy  stroke  to  the 
hill  before  us,  falling  somewhat  short,  and 
doing  the  hole  in  five. 

We  now  turn  to  the  right  again  at  a 
safe  distance,  drive  southward,  and  do  the 
hole  in  five.  We  had  expected  a  four. 

Walking  southward  to  a  tee  not  very 
far  from  the  fifth  green,  we  drive  almost 
parallel  to  the  southern  boundary  of  the 
course,  taking  care  not  to  slice  our  ball 
into  a  field  of  grain  on  our  right,  and  to 
be  sure  and  cross  an  ugly  bunker,  some 
one  hundred  yards  away  from  us,  landing 
on  the  green  just  beyond  the  bunker,  and 
doing  the  hole  in  three. 

We  are  now  on  the  easterly  boundary 
of  the  course,  where  we  have  a  fine  five- 
hundred-yard  hole  to  play,  with  no  ob- 
structions worth  noting,  beyond  the  fact 
that  our  strokes  must  not  be  sliced,  or  we 

140 


shall  be  out  of  bounds  to  the  right  in  the 
road.  We  make  it  in  five. 

A  shorter  hole,  which  brings  us  back  in 
the  direction  in  which  we  have  been  play- 
ing, is  done  in  four. 

We  then  drive  the  ninth  hole,  and  if 
our  game  is  equal  to  what  we  have  been 
doing,  we  are  easily  able  to  cross  the  fence 
on  our  second  stroke,  landing  us  on  the 
green,  and  doing  the  hole  in  four,  thus 
making  the  first  nine  in  thirty-seven. 

We  now  keep  northward  of  the  fence 
for  the  remaining  holes. 

Not  to  fatigue  the  reader,  we  will  avoid 
the  detail  of  the  remaining  nine  holes, 
merely  adding  that  they  are  interspersed 
with  a  few  fine  apple-trees,  and  being 
longer  than  the  first  nine,  we  may  safely 
give  our  player  forty  strokes,  thus  making 
the  eighteen  holes  in  seventy-seven,  a  fig- 
ure which  I  have  readily  arrived  at  on 
paper,  but  have  no  hope  of  equalling  or 
even  approaching  on  the  course.  I  have 

141 


heard  of  players  who,  with  their  heads  on 
the  pillow,  played  the  course  nightly 
before  falling  asleep,  invariably  making 
good  scores. 

The  companions  one  meets  there  in  the 
comparative  quiet  are  a  delightful  change 
from  the  hurlyburly  of  Paris.  The  sim- 
ple and  excellent  meals  that  are  served  us 
by  the  obliging  Henri  complete  the  com- 
forts and  pleasures. 

My  son  was  so  interested  in  the  running 
of  the  automobile  that  I  doubt  if  he  had 
much  time  to  appreciate  the  attractions  of 
the  many  roads  that  encircle  Paris,  over 
which  he  sped  at  a  high  speed. 

I  accepted  his  invitation  for  a  trip  to 
Fontainebleau.  We  left  the  Ritz  about 
ten  in  the  morning.  Our  chauffeur,  a 
blond  about  thirty  years  of  age,  had  a 
sharp,  keen-cut  air  about  him  that  inspired 
confidence  (and  I  know  of  nothing  that  I 
was  more  in  need  of  as  we  clattered 
through  the  busy  and,  at  times,  over- 

142 


crowded  streets  of  Paris  at  a  brisk  rate, 
than  that  very  thing — confidence).  He 
gave  no  attention  to  my  repeated  requests 
to  reduce  his  speed.  I  suppose  he  thought, 
as  I  was  in  his  power,  he  did  not  propose 
to  consider  my  feelings.  I  finally  told  him 
it  was  all  very  well  for  him  to  dash  ahead 
at  the  rate  he  was  going,  on  the  ground 
that  he  knew  his  rights,  but  if  an  accident 
happened,  it  would  do  no  good  to  say  that 
it  was  not  his  fault,  and  unless  he  went  a 
little  slower,  I  wished  to  get  out.  Words 
to  this  effect  finally  brought  him  to  terms, 
and  our  pace  was  more  to  my  liking.  He 
made  me  his  friend  by  placing  Jimmy  in 
full  control  of  the  machine  for  most  of  the 
time,  keeping,  I  could  see,  a  close  watch  on 
all  around  us,  but  making  my  son  feel  the 
full  responsibility  of  running  the  auto  for 
nearly  our  entire  journey. 

How  straight  is  the  road  to  a  father's 
heart  for  those  that  know  to  find  it! 

I  was  very  much  interested  in  the  vil- 

143 


lages  outside  the  eastern  side  of  Paris. 
The  little  imitation  chateaux,  with  their 
pruned  lime-trees,  trimmed  to  imitate 
those  in  the  great  parks  and  gardens,  the 
careful  cultivation,  the  little  plots  of 
ground,  and  the  general  picturesque  ef- 
fect that  everything  French  has,  were 
most  interesting. 

And  when  finally  we  had  left  the  great 
city  and  all  its  surroundings  behind  us, 
and  found  ourselves  on  a  long,  straight, 
well-built  road,  running  through  magnifi- 
cent forests  and  past  beautifully  tilled 
farms,  sometimes  without  a  living  object 
to  be  seen  on  the  roadway  for  miles  be- 
fore us,  I  became  entirely  reconciled  to  a 
speed  of  thirty  miles  an  hour,  and  fully 
appreciated  the  exhilaration  which  this 
new  mode  of  travel  carries  with  it. 

It  was  a  beautiful  day,  and  our  stroll 
through  the  park  at  Fontainebleau,  where 
we  entertained  ourselves  by  feeding  the 
carp  and  taking  kodak  pictures,  was  de- 

144 


lightful.  The  journey  back  was  equally 
enjoyable  until  we  came  to  the  narrow 
streets  of  the  villages,  and  there  my 
nerves  were  sorely  tried  by  the  manner  in 
which  our  chauffeur  dominated  the  situa- 
tion. It  was  as  much  as  to  say:  "  You 
had  better  get  out  of  the  way,  or  I  '11  run 
over  you.  I  'm  sorry  you  do  not  like  it, 
but  I  can't  help  it." 

When  we  descended,  about  six  in  the 
evening,  in  front  of  the  Ritz  hotel,  I  had 
that  tired  feeling  that  even  forty-five  holes 
of  golf  would  not  have  brought  me,  and 
yet  I  am  not  ready  to  say  that  I  would 
not  like  to  take  the  trip  over  again,  when- 
ever it  presents.  The  country  of  France 
is  so  constantly  interesting  that  I  feel 
quite  ready  to  accompany  my  son,  on  some 
future  occasion,  on  excursions  of  even  a 
more  extended  character. 

Helen  arrived  from  Germany  a  day 
or  two  before  our  departure,  and  our 
little  family  had  less  than  the  usual 

145 


struggle  with  the  shopkeepers,  dress- 
makers, etc. 

During  the  two  or  three  days  before  we 
departed  for  Cherbourg,  we  had  a  very 
pleasant  dinner  at  the  Vendome,  where  I 
enjoyed  making  Helen  and  Jimmy  ac- 
quainted with  my  friend  Mr.  Mink,  of 
Boston. 

I  had  the  pleasure  of  taking  my  son  to 
the  "  Theatre  Francois  "  for  the  first  time. 
We  saw  "  Les  Plaideurs,"  and  I  was 
much  pleased  to  find  that  he  could  en- 
joy it.  I  remember  so  well  my  first  ef- 
forts to  enjoy  a  French  play.  The  tor- 
ture of  not  fully  understanding  the  lan- 
guage was  a  constant  insult  to  my  intelli- 
gence. 

The  "  Theatre  National  de  la  Comedie 
Fran9aise  "  is  not  only  an  institution  of 
France,  it  is  an  institution  of  the  civilised 
world.  The  privilege  of  the  "  Faubourg," 
like  that  of  the  intellectual  society  of  Bos- 
ton or  the  good  old  families  of  Philadel- 

146 


phia,  is  for  the  favoured  few;  time  that 
chooses  its  friends  arbitrarily  has  affixed 
its  cachet  to  all  three. 

The  "  Theatre  Fran^ais  "  is  a  charming 
reality  of  to-day,  where  the  costumes, 
manners,  and  literature  of  both  the  past 
and  the  present  are  presented  with  fidel- 
ity, purity,  and  good  taste. 

The  stranger,  arriving  in  Paris,  who 
seeks  to  know  the  French,  cannot  do  bet- 
ter than  take  a  thorough  course  at  the 
"  Fran^ais."  He  should  carefully  read  the 
piece  before  seeing  the  play,  carefully 
re-read  it  after  having  seen  it,  and  then 
it  is  to  be  hoped  that  he  will  wish  to  see 
it  played  again.  He  should  never  take  the 
libretto  with  him  to  the  theatre.  His  sur- 
roundings do  not  permit  him  to  give  it  the 
proper  study  in  the  entr'actes,  and  if  it 
is  before  him  when  the  curtain  is  up,  his 
eye  is  distracted  from  the  stage,  not  to 
speak  of  the  fact  that  he  is  displeasing 
the  artists,  who  do  not  like  to  be  followed, 

147 


book  in  hand,  by  one  as  near  them  as  his 
fauteuil  should  be  to  permit  him  to  en- 
joy to  the  full  their  individual  talent. 
Some  of  the  actors  and  actresses  he  will 
understand  clearly,  as  each  word  is  beau- 
tifully pronounced  by  them.  Others  he 
will  find  it  difficult  to  follow,  even  if  he 
knows  by  heart  what  they  are  saying. 
Little  by  little,  familiarity  with  their 
voices  will,  however,  remove  the  difficulty, 
and  in  time  he  will  find  himself  assuming 
the  attitude  of  a  critic. 

I  recall  the  days  when  the  name  of  Co- 
quelin  aine  on  the  bill  settled  the  question, 
if  I  were  in  doubt,  where  I  should  pass  the 
evening.  He  never  came  upon  the  scene 
without  arousing  a  sensation  of  pleasure 
and  stimulating  your  interest  in  the  piece. 

The  performances  of  the  Grand  Opera 
at  Paris  leave  with  me  a  more  lasting  im- 
pression than  similar  performances  in 
other  cities.  It  is  not  in  the  leading  parts 
that  Paris  excels.  It  is  in  the  setting,  the 

148 


orchestra,  the  chorus,  the  ballet,  and  the 
scenery,  that  there  is  a  charm  that  I  do  not 
find  elsewhere.  Madame  Breval,  in  the 
Metropolitan  Opera  House,  is  not  to  me 
the  same  Madame  Breval  that  I  have  seen 
in  Paris.  That  part  of  the  performance 
that  appeals  to  the  senses  is  so  far  superior 
to  that  which  New  York  offers,  that  a 
feeling  of  delight  remains  with  you  after 
the  curtain  has  fallen,  and  it  is  only  as  you 
descend  the  steps,  and  make  one  of  the 
great  throng  that  pours  down  the  magnifi- 
cent staircase  out  into  the  Place  de 
1'Opera,  that  you  are  brought  back  to  the 
realities  of  life. 

We  saw  Saint-Saens'  "  Samson  and 
Delilah,"  Madame  Heglon  giving  a  re- 
markable impersonation  of  the  heroine. 
As  she  comes  upon  the  scene,  with  a  coif- 
fure of  brilliant  flowers  that  her  magnifi- 
cent presence  carries  with  ease,  bearing  a 
cup  in  her  hand,  with  outstretched  arm  ap- 
proaching the  blind,  dejected  Samson, 

149 


who  with  bowed  head  is  nurturing  ven- 
geance in  abject  sorrow,  "  L'ame  triste 
jusqu'a  la  mort,"  she  pours  forth  to  him 
in  her  splendid  contralto  voice  these 
taunting  words: 

Souviens-toi  de  nos  ivresses! 
Souviens-toi  de  raes  caresses! 
L'amour  servait  mon  projet 
Pour  assouvir  ma  vengeance. 
Je  t'arrachai  ton  secret; 
Je  1'avais  vendu  d'avance. 
Tu  croyais  a  cet  amour. 
C'est  lui  qui  riva  ta  chaine; 
Dalila  venge  en  ce  jour 
Son  dieu,  son  peuple  et  sa  haine. 

I  felt  I  had  never  before  fully  realised 
the  Bible  story  until  I  saw  Heglon  and 
Rousseliere.  Salvini  may  impress  us  with 
the  grandeur  of  Samsons  suffering;  it  re- 
quires Heglon  to  explain  it. 

Paris  seems  to  force  from  her  artists 
the  limit  of  their  powers.  The  severity  of 
its  criticisms,  the  sweetness  of  its  discrimi- 
nating praise,  stimulate,  encourage,  and 
perfect  them;  and  be  they  French,  Beige, 
Austrian,  Italian,  Swede,  Dane  or  Amer- 

150 


ican,  they  seek  diligently  to  win  the  ap- 
proval of  the  critics  of  this  art  centre  of 
the  world. 

On  the  morning  of  August  13  we 
were  all  up  bright  and  early,  to  take  the 
8.50  train  from  St.  Lazare  Station.  A 
large  blue  and  white  placard,  "Trein  pour 
New  York,"  marks  the  entrance  to  the 
platform  of  the  train.  This  announce- 
ment certainly  presents  the  two  great 
capitals  together  in  one's  mind. 

We  had  an  hour  or  two  at  Cherbourg 
before  the  departure  of  the  tug,  which  en- 
abled us  to  see  the  forlorn  little  bathing 
establishment  of  which  the  town  boasts. 

About  five  in  the  afternoon  the  "  Kron- 
prinz  "  rounded  the  western  end  of  the 
breakwater,  and  as  our  tug  came  along- 
side her  lofty  bulwarks,  we  had  the  fa- 
miliar sight  of  the  Atlantic  liner  in  all  its 
surroundings,  passengers,  stewards,  crew, 
and  sometimes  cooks,  looking  over  the  rail 
to  see  their  incoming  freight,  the  rushing 

151 


up  and  down  the  gang-planks,  the  crew 
bearing  all  kinds  of  baggage,  from  canary 
birds  in  cages  to  massive  trunks,  which  lat- 
ter have  always  seemed  to  me  to  be  an  im- 
position, and  I  can  imagine  a  new  "  In- 
ferno "  compelling  the  millionaires  to  pass 
more  or  less  of  eternity  shouldering  huge 
Vuitton  trunks,  which  they  are  forced  to 
carry  to  a  great  height,  only  to  plunge 
them  down  where  the  Fates  would  com- 
pel them,  to  return  and  continue  their  use- 
less labour.  I  think  the  law  might  well  be 
evoked  to  limit  the  size  and  weight  of 
travellers'  trunks. 

One  of  the  principal  events  of  our  jour- 
ney across  the  Atlantic  was  a  sad  hour  or 
two,  when  Jimmy  and  I  retired  to  our 
state-rooms  to  consider  whether  we  would 
confess  we  were  seasick  or  not.  We 
looked  into  each  other's  downcast  faces 
and  exchanged  a  sickly  smile.  I  think  I 
said  something  about  the  pleasures  of  our 
Southampton  home.  Fortunately  for  us, 

152 


the  heavy  sea  began  to  abate,  and  we  man- 
aged to  put  in  an  appearance  at  the  din- 
ner-table. We  were  all  glad,  however,  to 
think  how  rapidly  550  miles  a  day  brings 
one  across  the  Atlantic. 

Helen  kept  her  berth  most  of  the  time, 
and  was  wonderfully  cheerful  in  what  al- 
most might  be  called  her  little  cell. 

We  came  up  the  harbour  early  on  the 
morning  of  the  nineteenth,  passed  the  cus- 
tom-house with  a  reasonable  payment  of 
duties,  and  were  in  all  the  delights  of  our 
Southampton  house  by  six  o'clock  that 
evening. 

Thus  ended  a  most  delightful  trip  to 
Europe.  Let  us  hope  that  there  are  many 
more  yet  in  store. 


153 


mm 


5orr?e  Account  of  tfie  Travels  of 
and  my  Son  in  t/je  Summer  of 


